them foaminsc like the wake of a tiny 



. . . 20I 



steamer as the swift-moving feet lift them 

 almost out of water. Visions of ocean, ^''S&j^*^ 

 the guns, falling birds and the hard winter ^^^^ , , 

 distract the poor mother. She flutters 

 wildly about the brood, now leading, now 

 bravely facing the monster; now pushing 

 along some weak little loiterer, now floun- 

 dering near the canoe, as if wounded, to 

 attract attention from the young. But they 

 double the point at last, and hide away under 

 the alders. The canoe glides by and makes 

 no effort to find them. Silence is again over 

 the forest. The little brood come back to the 

 shallows, with mother bird fluttering round 

 them to count again and again, lest any be 

 missing. The kingfisher comes out of his 

 hole in the bank. The river flows on as 

 before, and peace returns ; and over all is the 

 mystic charm of the wilderness and the quiet 

 of a summer day. 



This is the way it all looks and seems to 

 me, sitting over under the big hemlock, out 

 of sight, and watching the birds through my 

 field glass. 



