Round Robin Hood's Barn 



surface of the water, his white tail bobbing 

 through the sedge. But the rock-island in the 

 center has its accompaniment of turtles, their 

 shells baked gray by the hot sun. On the pickerel 

 and the arrow-heads, I catch already the gleam 

 of iridescent wings. Where is the muskrat? 

 Those are his waterways that have broken the 

 green scum and pushed aside the lily-pads in a 

 straight reach from dock to dock. As I keep a 

 quiet place, I hear a chew and nibble and know 

 where to find him by the stir and shake of grass. 

 Then suddenly I recognize quite close beside me, 

 an undercurrent of small soimds. Somewhere 

 along the water's edge, a sandpiper is clucking 

 softly to her brood. With tip and tilt of her 

 small form she comes, picking her way among the 

 cat-tails at a pace too rapid for her little scuttling 

 balls of fluff. Were I to appear, how frantically 

 would she gather them about her and how swiftly 

 would they slip from sight. But she does not 

 fear the taciturnity of the old bittern who for 

 many years has made this pool his haunt. And 

 no wonder. He is a crabbed bachelor who will 

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