no 



RECREATION. 



Just below us lies a fallen hemlock, and 

 flashing through its cool, green branches is 

 a bit of flame color, in which we recognize 

 the shy scarlet tanager, or fire bird, as he 

 is sometimes called, all the more' startling 

 in his brilliance as he swings across the 

 dark foliage, sending his single call of 

 liquid sweetness throughout the valley. 

 Funny little fellow, who, using summer 

 girl tactics, changes his frivolous courting 

 garb, when summer and love making end, 

 to a suit of dull olive and yellow, in more 

 equable comparison to the plumage of his 

 soberly clad wife. Across his wing-way 

 flutters and chatters a discordant jay, who 

 has only beauty of coloring to recommend 

 him to his artistic friends. He makes a 



tiny mud bank, over which are hovering 

 dozens of yellow butterflies like great 



SCARLET TANAGER. 



gleaming contrast to the tanager, the two, 

 in their darting movements, transforming 

 the great hemlock into a veritable Christ- 

 mas tree. 



We steal along gently, not to interrupt 

 this charming color arrangement, and far- 

 ther on we are treated to a series of sweet 

 song notes by that woods atom, the indigo 

 bunting, which so delighted Thoreau with 

 its glowing blue gown. Its vanity sends it 

 fluttering from one dead bush to another. 

 It turns and preens its jeweled plumage 

 among the shadows, all the time caroling 

 its song of gladness, which begins in loud 

 bravado, but grows fainter and fainter to 

 the end. 



I follow Romance until we come to a 

 beautiful turn in the willow shaded creek. 

 Over the surface of the water are darting 

 myriads of dragon-flies, in glittering ar- 

 mor that radiates with their every ner- 

 vous motion. Occasionally we see one of 

 more somber mien, glinting about in a garb 

 of black and white, frisking the sun- 

 shine, for all the world like some consola- 

 ble but unconsoled young widow. Farther 

 down, the receding stream has left a 



SAMPLING THE MUD. 



handfuls of living bloom. All around us 

 are Aristophanes' 



"Birds of humble, gentle bill, 

 Smooth and shrill : 

 Dieted on seeds and grain 

 Rioting on the furrowed plain, 

 Picking, hopping, 

 Picking, popping, 

 Among the barley newly sown." 



"Ah, a paradise indeed, is this 'world 

 forgetting, by the world forgot' corner of 

 Ashtabula, sleeping calmly in its summer 

 sunshine of peace and plentitude," I mur- 

 mur to Romance. 



"Nothing of the sort," she answers, with 

 her everlasting realism. "It is one seeth- 

 ing mass of desire and unrest; a contin- 

 uous battle of the strong against the weak, 

 where every moment thousands are tragic- 

 ally rushing a weaker brother or being 

 rushed by a stronger into the realms of the 

 great unknown without wish or warn- 

 ing." 



I have no answer, for undulatng softly 

 through the rushes below comes a little 

 water snake, and with one wicked turn of 

 his shining head, and one snap of his cruel 

 jaws, a gleaming skater has ceased to live. 



"You see, do you not?" continues Ro- 

 mance, ''that your paradise has the usual 

 accompaniment, and is not lacking in trag- 

 edy, any more than your artificial civiliza- 

 tion that you rant so much about. From a 

 philosophical point of view, I prefer civ- 

 ilization. It is so much more comforta- 

 ble." 



What use is it to argue with a person 

 all wrong? For answer I idly fling a stone 

 into the willows below. An awful flash 

 and flutter follow my act, and, as it 

 seems to us, the sun is obliterated. We 

 scream mildly, while away across the val- 



