of his beautiful kind, was left to me ; and he 

 had no mate. 



Day after day he waited for her in the swale ; 

 night after night he returned. Then came a 

 night when he did not return. Morning came 

 and another night. 



Anxiously I pulled up the lake and drew 

 softly into the run. There stood the old stub. 

 Had little Aix found his bride and brought her 

 home? 



I caught a bit of bush by the bank and 

 waited. Then, drawing near, I tapped gently. 

 No, he had not come yet. 



And that, too, was many springs ago. 



The old maple stub still leans out over the 

 run ; and still, whenever I can, I push quietly 

 in among the shadows and remember— for little 

 Aix, if he found a mate, never brought her back 

 to the old home tree. 



[230] 



