THE DEAD TREE'S DAY. 
113 
At eleven o’clock a flock o£ small birds moved 
rapidly across the meadow, and four of the num¬ 
ber passed through my covert. They were a 
chickadee and three Wilson’s blackcaps. I 
wish the latter bird lived here in the breeding 
season, for it is a pretty, confiding, gentle little 
creature. The departure of these birds was has¬ 
tened by the appearance on the lake shore of a 
young man, a boy, and a dog. The man car¬ 
ried a gun, and the dog rushed about in an ex¬ 
cited way, doing his best in cur fashion to aid 
in the hunt. When the trio reached the brook 
at the point where it debouched upon the lake 
sand, the man cursed the stream for its width, 
and the boy, in a loud nasal voice, followed his 
example. They stood upon the farther side for 
several minutes pouring out blasphemy and filth 
until a sandpiper attracted their attention and 
their gun spoke sharply. The bird escaped, 
perhaps to die in the meadow grass, and again 
the two intelligent human beings invoked wrath 
upon the bird, the stream, the meadow, the dog, 
and the gun. Then they crossed the brook 
higher up, where it was narrower, and distance 
covered their conversation with a welcome veil. 
As long as the pleasant memories of that quiet 
day linger in my mind, so long will there be 
drawn through them a black line of disgust at 
the vileness of the two representatives of my 
