MY FIRST WATER-OUZELS 



presently overtaken by a heavy wagon drawn by 

 a pair of mules, the young driver of which invited 

 me to ride. 



" Thank you," said I, and clambered up into 

 the lofty seat beside him. " I am going into the 

 canon," I said. 



"Just where I am going," he answered. 



He was hauling stone out of the arroyo, it 

 seemed. So this time I not only had made sure 

 of ray course, but was spared a mile or two of 

 walking. 



The canon proved to be a romantic, closely 

 walled place, narrowly tucked in between two 

 contiguous mountains, each about six thousand 

 feet high, and made alive, as it were, by the clear- 

 est of mountain brooks, while the deliciously 

 sweet falling whistle of a cafion wren seemed to 

 bid me welcome as I entered. Yes, said I, this is 

 the place, and this is the day ; and now for the 

 water-ouzels ! 



Up the brook I went, first on this side for a 

 few rods, then on the other for a like distance, 

 as the water left room for me against the base of 

 the cliff, till by and by I came to the falls, which, 

 for any but initiated or decidedly resolute ex- 

 plorers, must be accepted as the head of the 

 canon. For myself, and for to-day, at all events, 

 there was no thought of proceeding farther. And 

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