WHERE RUNS THE TIDE. 201 



century ago. One spring on the pond's bank still 

 maintained its flow and sent a little trickling stream 

 across the mud, into which it wore a narrow, tortu- 

 ous channel. It was a sad, forlorn, forsaken-looking 

 place, and yet for nearly a month it was inviting 

 above all else in the neighborhood by reason of the 

 birds attracted to it. Among these was a yellow-leg 

 that became quite tame and allowed of such near 

 approach that I could study its movements to great 

 advantage. It was never in a hurry, yet on occa- 

 sion could run with great rapidity ; it was never de- 

 sirous of flying, yet had unrestricted use of its wings. 

 It was seldom silent, and even when hunting the 

 mud-flats, probing the soft ground almost every mo- 

 ment, it would indulge in that pleasant whistling so 

 familiar to those who have rambled along our river- 

 shore in the early mornings of late summer days. 

 For many days I feasted my ears on the music and 

 my eyes on the graceful ways of this "game" -bird, 

 which was too near and dear to me, at least, to ever 

 think of its destruction. 



It remained until the early autumn rains brought 

 the pond up to its proper level, and even then ap- 

 peared loath to depart, for I saw it on the narrow 

 beach between the dense shrubbery and the deep 

 water while passing in my boat one morning early 

 in October. It seemed at that time to have sud- 

 denly grown wild again, and, whistling with unusual 

 vigor, it finally rose high in the air and directed its 

 flight towards the river. I watched it until a mere 

 speck in the western sky, and when lost to view I 



