How Animals Talk 



bits. In an open space a solitary hen-duck bobbed 

 and teetered ecstatically, dipping the fore part of 

 her body under, then heaving it up quickly so 

 as to send the cleansing water in a foamy wave 

 over her back and wings. Here or there on a 

 tussock stood a quiet group of the splendid birds, 

 oiling their glossy feathers, setting a wing-cover 

 just right, or adding some other last touch to an 

 elaborate toilet before settling down for a nap. 



The glassy water reflected every form, color, 

 motion of these untroubled ducks as in a glass, 

 doubling the graceful effect. Around them 

 stretched the gloriously colored bog; and beyond 

 the bog were the nebulous-green larches, the somber 

 black growth and the lifting hills, on which au- 

 tumn had laid its golden touch. Truly a beauti- 

 ful sight, a sight to make the heart of hunter or 

 naturalist tremble with expectancy as he fingered 

 his gun. I have known that trembling, that ex- 

 pectancy; but there was greater pleasure, perhaps 

 greater freedom also, in leaving the happy comedy 

 undisturbed. 



Because of its solitude, its utter wildness, my 

 pond seemed to be the chosen resting-place of the 

 flocks on an autumn day (they feed or travel 

 mostly by night), and perhaps for the same reason 

 the ducks that frequented it were among the 

 wildest creatures I have ever tried to stalk. A 



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