38 WASTELAND WANDERINGS. 



eastward through a little forest was Doctor's Creek, as 

 my neighbors have it, but known in the past century, 

 as it should be still, as Buzzard's Rest. 



Yenerable birches and towering hickories, as if jealous 

 of the stream that flows at their feet, bend lovingly over 

 it, and combat every summer sunbeam that seeks to gild 

 the sluggish waters. 



As I turned the boat's prow from the main creek and 

 entered the Rest, the silence was profound. The name, 

 as in days of old, proved, to-day, to be aptly chosen. A 

 score of gorged and listless vultures were sitting in the 

 upper branches of the trees. 



The most prominent object at the mouth of this trib- 

 utary creek is a magnificent birch, measuring something 

 more than two feet in diameter. It leans over the wa- 

 ter at about an angle of forty-five degrees. The largest 

 of its branches are strangely angular, and at once at- 

 tract attention. In this feature of angularity they re- 

 call the crooked hornbeams of Linden Bend. 



Beyond this tree, but still distinctly in view, are oth- 

 er equally large birches, one of which, now dead, leans 

 over the water in a nearly horizontal position. One fan- 

 cies these trees, collectively, the rafters of an enormous 

 roof, that once shut in the valley. 



Buzzard's Kest is a favorite haunt of the kingfishers, 

 and seldom a half -hour passes without their harsh cries 

 disturbing the quiet of this secluded corner. 



This bird is considered strictly migratory, and possi- 

 bly, a century or more ago, came and went with the reg- 

 ularity of our summer songsters ; but since I have known 

 them, a few are sure to be found wintering in every lit- 



