A SONG OF SUMMER 8 1 



through, and the odour of peppermint, 

 crushed by our tread, rises about us; 

 butterflies hover in flocks above the 

 purple milkweeds, and the river glis- 

 tens between the sallows. It is not 

 a great stream carrying a burden of 

 traffic, but a sociable, gossiping sort 

 of a river, bearing the small tattle of 

 mill-wheels, hidden in byways and cor- 

 ners, bringing down some bark from 

 the saw-mill, or a little meal-foam from 

 the grist-mill; scolding the pebbles, 

 but growing silent as it passes the 

 pools where the pickerel, like motion- 

 less shadows, hide under projections. 

 In a bit of curled bark, drifted into 

 a shallow, a song-sparrow bathes, and 

 chirps an answer to the babbling water. 

 If he would, he might tell us the story 

 of the river. We sit on the bank and 

 watch as he preens and spatters and 

 flies to a brier, warbling with a heav- 



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