To Mountain Tarn 



limb of the pine to watch. It has the flight of an 

 eagle and the hunting habits of an owl. 



I walked across that way. On a tumbled heap 

 something was moving. The creature was too 

 busy to notice me. If the buzzard, then it had 

 got prey. If the rascal, then he was caught 

 red-billed. The catch was very innocent ; much 

 the same as that of the weasel. No one would 

 have cared to take it away. Need it be told over 

 that no creature exists more fitted to keep in 

 check the smaller rodents, so that they may not 

 become a plague ? A servant he, who works 

 while man sleeps. Had the buzzard been killed 

 while he was a-hunting, there would have been 

 one pest the more. As it was, there was one the 

 less. 



After a climb I rested, where the moraine 

 stones are piled up and half hidden in hill ferns. 

 I looked down on the glen, to where the stream 

 wound along its course ; as from the glen I had 

 looked up on the hills. The air was fresher. A 

 light breeze played fitfully. The rose-bay willow 

 herb lifted itself high from the stones, as its sister 

 beside the water. Golden rod bravely bore its 

 golden spike. All around spread the bracken. 



In such a scene, so remote, one has only to be 

 quiet, and the wild creatures will come out of 

 their hiding, go through part of the daily round, 

 tell some of the secrets of their life. In course 

 of time, one gets into the habit of being quiet 



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