THE WATER-BIRDS. 



charcoal burner, coining down from the hills with his dusky 

 load, after the first light snow, tells of the Wild Geese that 

 passed over his clearing the night before, and settled on the 

 Forge Pond, and that when long John Hunt went after 

 them in the morning, his gun kicked and knocked him into 

 the worse bog hole ; whereupon the whole flock flew away, 

 laughing fit to kill themselves ; and adding with a hoarse 

 chuckle, " Sarved him right, too ; never gives nuthin' he 

 gits to neighbours, allers sends ? em to N'York." 



In November and December, the hardy but inedible Sea 

 Ducks return from the north, and settle noisily in their 

 winter quarters; and all through the fall the lighthouse- 

 keeper sends ashore some of the rarer migrants that, dazed 

 and storm-blown, have dashed to death against his tower; 

 and, as a bird-lover, he will find you out. If, in the autumn 

 or early winter, you should chance to spend a little time 

 among the lakes, or along the real sea-coast, from Massa- 

 chusetts southward to the Chesapeake, a new pathway of 

 delight will stretch before you, read of the Sea-birds that 

 Celia Thaxter entertained at Appledore in her Island Gar- 

 den. And now that many people take their outings about 

 the eastern shore, overrunning the pleasant islands, you too, 

 may see the summer nesting of the Gulls and Terns, birds 

 that before you had considered mysterious wanderers from 

 the north. 



These Water-birds, that count space as nothing and dis- 

 tance the swiftest locomotive in their flight, ever on the 

 wing from the very necessities of their existence, always 

 bring with them some of the atmosphere of their native 

 haunts. The Wild Ducks, hanging in the market-stall, still 

 wear on their wings a patch of rainbow colour, as if stamped 

 there by the sun and mist through which they took their 

 first flight. Call these birds songless, give them any names 

 you please, they will remain mysteries, coming out of the 

 sky and disappearing again in its horizon, pushing on to 

 an invisible haven; because their homes are so remote 

 we do not realize that they are like other birds, and we 

 forget, when the garden trees are full of nests and sway 



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