her morning bath, and hear her sing, in a clump of pussy-willows, that
low, tender, confidential song which she keeps for the hours of domestic
intimacy. The spotted sandpiper will run along the stones before
you, crying, "wet-feet, wet-feet!" and bowing and teetering in the
friendliest manner, as if to show you the way to the best pools. In the
thick branches of the hemlocks that stretch across the stream, the tiny
warblers, dressed in a hundred colours, chirp and twitter confidingly
above your head; and the Maryland yellow-throat, flitting through the
bushes like a little gleam of sunlight, calls "witchery, witchery,
witchery!" That plaintive, forsaken, persistent note, never ceasing,
even in the noonday silence, comes from the wood-pewee, drooping upon
the bough of some high tree, and complaining, like Mariana in the moated
grange, "weary, weary, weary!"

When the stream runs out into the old clearing, or down through the
pasture, you find other and livelier birds,--the robins, with his sharp,
saucy call and breathless, merry warble; the bluebird, with his notes
of pure gladness, and the oriole, with his wild, flexible whistle; the
chewink, bustling about in the thicket, talking to his sweetheart in
French, "cherie, cherie!" and the song-sparrow, perched on his favourite
limb of a young maple, dose beside the water, and singing happily,
through sunshine and through rain. This is the true bird of the brook,
after all: the winged spirit of cheerfulness and contentment, the patron
saint of little rivers, the fisherman's friend. He seems to enter into
your sport with his good wishes, and for an hour at a time, while you
are trying every fly in your book, from a black gnat to a white miller,
to entice the crafty old trout at the foot of the meadow-pool,
the song-sparrow, close above you, will be chanting patience and
encouragement. And when at last success crowns your endeavour, and the
parti-coloured prize is glittering in your net, the bird on the bough