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Page 56
CHAPTER XV.
A MORNING HOUR.
It is morning in the Lonely Cove. Before and around lies a broad
stretch of glimmering water, dotted here and there with great
stumps, and lined about the shore with dead trees. Dams built in
the river beyond have raised the level of the lake, and hundreds
of trees have died.
On every side is a network of gnarled and knotted roots. The black
limbs grapple with each other; here one has dragged his neighbour
over, and he lies with arms outstretched, writhen into antic
twists and curves, as if he had died in torment; there, in
singular contrast, are two friends,--oaks, were they once?--who
have fallen into one another's arms, and, dead, seem still to
embrace and uphold each other tenderly.
Here again are stumps that gleam like gray silver, bare and
polished, worn by storms and winds. The shining water is clear,
and one sees the bottom covered with particles of wood, chipped
from the rotting trees, preserved by the water from further decay.
Through this silent water glides the Cheemaun, Hilda in the bow--
where is Hilda so happy as in the birch canoe?--Roger paddling in
the stern. As the paddle dips, bubbles rise and burst, large and
round. Behind, the dark woods curve in a lovely line; between wood
and water, spread like a bed for the dead and dying trees, a
swamp, bright with rushes and water-weed.
On the crest of a snow-white birch sits a great fish-hawk, with
bent head and closed wings. What is the hunter dreaming of? Hours
of sport, most likely; long pauses on balanced wings, the arrowy
downward sweep, the swift plunge, and the triumph of the upward
plunge, dripping and proud, bearing his prey aloft.
Some real or fancied noise disturbs the vision; he rises, spreads
the wide, hollow wings, and flaps slowly away. Roused by his
flight, half a dozen crows burst suddenly into talk, and protest
violently against some deadly injury, then as suddenly fall silent
again.
Whirr! a kingfisher darts down with a quick splash, and back to
his bough with a fish in his beak. The canoe moves on, slowly,
noiselessly; here the water is only three inches deep, but the
soft bottom yields as the strong young arms ply the paddle.
Hilda lifts her hand with a warning gesture, and they are
motionless once more. Look! not fifty yards away, a group of
pretty birds play and paddle in the shallow water. Sandpipers, are
they? They might be enchanted princesses, Hilda thinks, as they go
mincing along, turning their heads now to this side, now to that,
admiring themselves in the clear water. One of them finds a bit of
succulent weed, and the others come running, for all the world
like curious girls, ruffling their pretty feathers, cocking their
pretty heads; and they peck, and chatter, and peck again, wholly
unconscious of the two monsters who are drifting nearer and
nearer. Suddenly one of them catches sight of a moving shadow,
hears some faint lapping of water against the side of the canoe,
inaudible to ears less fine; and the three princesses are up and
away, fluttering, hopping, fairly flying at last, to hide
themselves in the deeps of the bog-land.
Neither of the two had spoken during all this time. Both felt the
magic of the place so strong upon them that speech seemed
profanation. The flight of the little birds, however, loosened the
spell. Hildegarde spoke, but softly, almost under her breath.
"Captain! Do you see the lizard? Look at him, on the log there!
The greenness of him! soul of an emerald!"
"I was looking at the fish," said Roger.
"What for a fish?" Hilda leaned over the side, and looked into the
clear shallow water. A bream was hovering over her wide, shallow
nest, fanning the water slowly with wide-spread wings. "Why does
she do that?"
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