Away go the brood
together, the river behind them foaming like the wake of a tiny
steamer as the swift-moving feet lift them almost out of water.
Visions of ocean, the guns, falling birds, and the hard winter
distract the poor mother. She flutters wildly about the brood, now
leading, now bravely facing the monster; now pushing along some weak
little loiterer, now floundering near the canoe as if wounded, to
attract attention from the young. But they double the point at last,
and hide away under the alders. The canoe glides by and makes no
effort to find them. Silence is again over the forest. The little
brood come back to the shallows, with mother bird fluttering round
them to count again and again lest any be missing. The kingfisher
comes out of his hole in the bank. The river flows on as before, and
peace returns; and over all is the mystic charm of the wilderness and
the quiet of a summer day.
This is the way it all looks and seems to me, sitting over under the
big hemlock, out of sight, and watching the birds through my
field-glass.
Day after day I have attended such little schools unseen and
unsuspected by the mother bird. Sometimes it was the a-b-c class, wee
little downy fellows, learning to hide on a lily pad, and never
getting a reward of merit in the shape of a young trout till they hid
so well that the teacher (somewhat over-critical, I thought) was
satisfied.
Pages:
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45