inions, spite of his skill in swimming. Then he goes to the creeks
and harbors.

Along the shore a flock of his own kind, apparently, are feeding in
quiet water. Straight in he comes with unsuspecting soul, the morning
light shining full on his white breast and bright red feet as he
steadies himself to take the water. But _bang, bang!_ go the guns; and
_splash, splash!_ fall his companions; and out of a heap of seaweed
come a man and a dog; and away he goes, sadly puzzled at the painted
things in the water, to think it all over in hunger and sorrow.

Then the weather grows cold, and a freeze-up covers all his feeding
grounds. Under his beautiful feathers the bones project to spoil the
contour of his round plump body. He is famished now; he watches the
gulls to see what they eat. When he finds out, he forgets his caution,
and roams about after stray mussels on the beach. In the spring
hunger drives him into the ponds where food is plenty--but such food!
In a week his flesh is so strong that a crow would hardly eat it.
Altogether, it is small wonder that as soon as his instinct tells him
the streams of the North are open and the trout running up, he is off
to a land of happier memories.

In summer he forgets his hardships. His life is peaceful as a meadow
brook. His home is the wilderness--on a lonely lake, it may be,
shimmering under the summer sun, or kissed into a thousand smiling
ripples by the south wind. 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