same tall, tireless figure with
the grave and kindly face. Again I wonder at the uncomprehended
skill which brought whirling down ten out of the dozen of those
brown lightning balls. Again I rejoice, beyond all count or
measure, over the first leporine murder committed by myself, the
same furthered by means of a rest on a forked tree. It seems to
me I groan secretly again at the weight of that great gun before
the night has come. I almost wince again at the pulling off of
those copper-toed boots at night, there by the kitchen stove,
after the chase is done. But, ah! how happy I am again, holding
up for the gaze of a kind pair of eyes this great, gray creature
with the lopping ears.

Now, as we walk by the banks of this magic river, I would that
it might be always as it was in the earliest days. I like best
to think myself mistaken when I suspect a greater stoop in this
once familiar form which knew these hills and woods so well. It
can not be that the quick eye has grown less bright. Yet why was
the last mallard missed? And tell me, is not the old dog ranging
as widely as once he did? Can it be that he keeps closer at
heel? Does he look up once in a while, mournfully, with a dimmer
eye, at an eye becoming also dimmer--does he walk more slowly,
by a step now not so fast? Does he look up--My God!--is there
melancholy in a dog's eye, too?

[Illustration]

[Illustration: What the Waters Said]

[Illustration]

WHAT THE WATERS SAID

The fire was flickering fitfully and painting ghostly shadows on
the wall. It was winter, and late in winter; indeed, the season
was now at length drawing near to the end of winter, and
approaching that dear time of spring which, beyond doubt, will
be the eventful front and closing of the circle in the land
where winter will not come.

I had drawn the little pine table close to the heap of failing
embers, and aided by what light the sulky candle gave, was
bending over and trying to arrange a patch on my old hunting-coat.
It was an old, old hunting-coat, far gone in the sere and yellow
leaf. It was old-fashioned now, though once of proper cut and
comeliness. It was disfigured, stained and worn. The pockets
were torn down. The bindings were worn out. It was quite
willing to be left alone now, hung by upon a forgotten nail,
and subject to no further requisition. Nevertheless, if its
owner wished, it could still do a day or two. I knew that; and
something in the sturdy texture