4 NOTES ON NEW ENGLAND BIRDS 



up somewhere. The October wind rises, rustling the 

 leaves, ruffling the pond water, so that no loon can be 

 seen rippling the surface. Our sportsmen scour, sweep 

 the pond with spy-glass in vain, making the woods ring 

 with rude [?] charges of powder, for the loon went off 

 in that morning rain with one loud, long, hearty laugh, 

 and our sportsmen must beat a retreat to town and stable 

 and daily' routine, shop work, unfinished jobs again. 



Or in the gray dawn the sleeper hears the long duck- 

 ing gun explode over toward Goose Pond, and, hasten- 

 ing to the door, sees the remnant of a flock, black duck 

 or teal, go whistling by with outstretched neck, with 

 broken ranks, but in ranger order. And the silent hunter 

 emerges into the carriage road with ruffled feathers at 

 his belt, from the dark pond-side where he has lain in 

 his bower since the stars went out. 



And for a week you hear the circling clamor, clangor, 

 of some solitary goose through the fog, seeking its mate, 

 peopling the woods with a larger life than they can hold. 



For hours in fall days you shall watch the ducks cun- 

 ningly tack and veer and hold the middle of the pond, 

 far from the sportsmen on the shore, — tricks they have 

 learned and practiced in far Canada lakes or in Louisi- 

 ana bayous. 



The waves rise and dash, taking sides with all water- 

 fowl. 



Oct. 8, 1852. P. M. — Walden. As I was paddling 

 along the north shore, after having looked in vain over 

 the pond for a loon, suddenly a loon, sailing toward the 

 middle, a few rods in front, set up his wild laugh and 

 betrayed himself. I pursued with a paddle and he dived, 



