108 THE CONDOR 
A RETURN TO THE DAKOTA LAKE REGION 
By FLORENCE MERRIAM BAILEY 
(Continued from page 11) 
VI. THE COULEE OF THE MEADOWS 
ROM the windmills on the distant horizon comes the Coulee, winding lan- 
guidly down through the meadows till nearly losing itself in the green- 
veiled waterway under the grass-carpeted span of the Bridge over the 
Coulee; winding languidly on, narrowing in between grassy points and tule 
promontories, broadening out between retreating bench lines whose widely op- 
posed faces tell of the greater waterways of the geologic past; winding on, 
curving gently around green pastures, offering shallow drinking places to 
thirsty cattle; meandering down, deepening in between narrow banks of high 
marsh vegetation, till it passes under the Bridge of the Grebes and the Ruddies, 
and beyond swerves out to lose itself in the lake. From the widely opposed 
faces of the retreating bench lines looking down on its greatest bend, a beauti- 
ful picture presents itself; the Coulee, lying open under the sky, between the 
vivid greens of its marshy borders and the soft straw colors of the wide wheat 
fields, its pellucid surface dotted over with resting water fowl. 
Under a cloudless sky on a quiet day, it is easy to imagine, a trick of the 
sun would turn the peaceful waterway to a little river of blue. On a windy 
day riffled patches of ultramarine mark the current between brownish borders 
of water weeds that raise their heads to the surface—a surface tracked with the 
irregular cross lines of many feathered swimmers. 
Meandering down between the broad Sweetwater lakes, which often roli 
with white caps, the placid Coulee, sheltered by a dense growth of marsh veg- 
etation and in places by high protecting banks, offers safe harbor and unbrok- 
en quiet for families of tender young. For some weeks I was living near it, be- 
side East Sweetwater, and the voices of young were always to be heard. The 
narrowest parts were veritable nurseries, alive with families of Ducks and Dab- 
chicks, and innumerable broods of Coots. I could get close to them in the pas- 
ture—that pasture of pleasant memories, where friendly horses came for a wisp 
_ of grass or a pat on the neck, or contentedly stood around while busy Cowbirds 
walked unafraid about them; where, too, the belated Norwegian milk-maid and 
[, going to bring the cattle home by the hght of the moon, mistook the dim 
forms of horses for cows, and in our search had to follow faint trails now -east 
now west; the milk-maid’s weird Norwegian call, urgent and commanding, pen- 
etrating far into the dusky distances. In the pasture, too, when I was trying to 
wateh Ducks from the umbrella blind some distant passersby mistook it for 
‘*some kind of an animal’’; though, when the prairie wind made it so ineffect- 
ive that I took it down, they recognized it for ‘‘some kind of a tent’’! 
Cow paths followed the outlines of fingers of marsh the Coulee laid on the © 
pasture, and led on behind a border of cat-tails where, mixed with the quack 
of a Mallard and the voices of young, the rasp of a Coot made me peer down, 
and discover, to my amusement, a nervously veering white bill between the 
grcen stalks. Close by was one of the favorite feeding grounds of the Coots 
yas 
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