Or perhaps it is a forest river, winding on
by wooded hills and grassy points and lonely cedar swamps. In secret
shallow bays the young broods are plashing about, learning to swim and
dive and hide in safety. The plunge of the fish-hawk comes up from the
pools. A noisy kingfisher rattles about from tree to stump, like a
restless busy-body. The hum of insects fills the air with a drowsy
murmur. Now a deer steps daintily down the point, and looks, and
listens, and drinks. A great moose wades awkwardly out to plunge his
head under and pull away at the lily roots. But the young brood mind
not these harmless things. Sometimes indeed, as the afternoon wears
away, they turn their little heads apprehensively as the alders crash
and sway on the bank above; a low cluck from the mother bird sends
them all off into the grass to hide. How quickly they have
disappeared, leaving never a trace! But it is only a bear come down
from the ridge where he has been sleeping, to find a dead fish
perchance for his supper; and the little brood seem to laugh as
another low cluck brings them scurrying back from their hiding places.
Once, perhaps, comes a real fright, when all their summer's practice
is put to the test. An unusual noise is heard; and round the bend
glides a bark canoe with sound of human voices.
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