72 IN WINTER. 



and that of man are too closely akin to warrant 

 much distinction. 



Birds, then, as usual, trooped to the fore as I 

 rambled down' the river. I saw nothing else, yet 

 not a bird was in view. The old histories came 

 to mind, and closed my eyes to other than an in- 

 ner vision. "Create stores of swannes, geese, 

 and ducks, and huge cranes, both blue and 

 white." Is it not exasperating to think of the 

 change wrought in two centuries ? A mile-wide 

 river, and banks of old-time wildness still re- 

 maining, yet not a feather rests upon the one or 

 shadow of a walking bird falls upon the other. 

 Far and near, up and down, and high overhead I 

 scan the country for a glimpse of some one bird, 

 but in vain. The crows nowadays have the river 

 to themselves, and none of these were about to- 

 day. 



The day has been a marked one for its empti- 

 ness. Tracing the river's shore for miles ought 

 to yield rich results, but here, at my journey's 

 end, I am empty-handed. What little I have seen 

 has but soured my temper. It is most unwise to 

 be ever mourning over the unrecoverable past, 

 but how can one avoid it ? Such a walk, pro- 

 ductive of nothing worth recording, may not, I 

 hope, be in vain, It at least provokes me to say, 

 Can not wild life, or what little remains of it, be ef- 

 fectually protected ? Can not swans, geese, and 



