AN APRIL DAY. 
165 
near, and with care and stealth paddle out to watch the 
life in the bog. From that mound-like hummock of roots 
and bulrushes emerges the muskrat and silently slips into 
the deep water, making hardly a ripple, thinking to deceive 
the keen-eyed observer. Everything seems alive. Now 
comes a flock of red-wings ( mostly males ); with dash 
and clamor they settle on the alders and give a concert 
never equaled by humans. Catch the flashes of red, as 
the owners of these bright epaulets vibrate from bush to 
bush. Then three golden-winged woodpeckers fly over 
alight on the solitary elm in the intervale, whence we hear 
their tattoo. 
But now come the majestic birds, for which we have 
passed an expectant hour. Circling and wheeling, they 
at last occupy the uppermost limbs of their favorite dead 
pines, near the brook’s mouth. We are still more than a 
hundred feet from their position. This year there are three, 
one an offspring, most likely. How striking is the dress ; 
head snowy white, neck and back soft brown, under parts 
also white, with sides of breast slightly spotted with brown. 
Almost motionless they sit, a slight turning of the head 
the only indication of life, while two eager enthusiasts in 
the dory feast their eyes upon them. Patience is at last 
rewarded, for, after due deliberation, one of their number 
thinks it time for breakfast. He drops from his perch, and 
then mounts steadily into the air ; round and round he 
dreamily floats on his powefful pinions,.the acme of grace 
and strength. Now we catch the gleam of his white head, 
the under wings and tail; then only a brown glow ; all the 
while turning his head from side to side, until at last he 
spies his fishy victim in the watery depths. Closing his 
wings, the weighty bird drops from that great height, like 
a shot. He disappears, for a second or two, behind the 
reeds bordering the brook, then slowly mounts with a siza¬ 
ble, wriggling, writhing fish in his talons. Will he seek 
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