SWAMP WHITE-OAK BEND. Ill 



the boat back to the water, and proceeded a few rods 

 down the stream, when I came to a stretch of weedy, open 

 meadow, aglow with brilliant color. Here 



The golden dodder's tangled net, 

 With waxen blossoms thickly set, 

 Enwraps the vervain's purple spire; 

 O'erspreads the rose with thread-like Are; 

 And like a gilded serpent twines 

 The mazy host of tangled vines. 



One large thicket of impenetrable growths was a cluster 

 of blackberry canes ; and here, too, was a grand display of 

 color. The canes were nearly leafless, but still covered 

 with a generous yield of fruit. This was but half ripe 

 and bright crimson, with here and there at pleasing in- 

 tervals a twig with coal-black berries. 



When absence of contrast has long prevailed, how 

 heartily is the crimson and black, the purple and gold, 

 the cardinal -flower among sedges, greeted. For weeks 

 the upland fields have been glowing with rich yellow, 

 in itself a pleasing color, but how tiresome to live amid 

 acres of blooming partridge-pea, to the exclusion of even 

 an occasional blade of grass. 



This pretty meadow — weedy, my farmer neighbors 

 call it — is bounded by a few large trees ; and as I ap- 

 proached them I heard a gentle tapping high overhead, 

 which I attributed to a woodpecker. While seated in 

 the boat, I looked into every tree as best I could, but 

 caught no glimpse of the bird. I looked skyward until 

 my neck ached, but in vain. Then, very naturally, I 

 " got mad." The tapping was remarkably constant, yet 

 the bird was playing bopeep very successfully. It must 



