The warmth of the deep spring fountains of the creek in our meadow
kept it open all the year, and a few pairs of wood ducks, the most
beautiful, we thought, of all the ducks, wintered in it. I well
remember the first specimen I ever saw. Father shot it in the creek
during a snowstorm, brought it into the house, and called us around
him, saying: "Come, bairns, and admire the work of God displayed in
this bonnie bird. Naebody but God could paint feathers like these.
Juist look at the colors, hoo they shine, and hoo fine they overlap
and blend thegether like the colors o' the rainbow." And we all agreed
that never, never before had we seen so awfu' bonnie a bird. A pair
nested every year in the hollow top of an oak stump about fifteen feet
high that stood on the side of the meadow, and we used to wonder how
they got the fluffy young ones down from the nest and across the
meadow to the lake when they were only helpless, featherless midgets;
whether the mother carried them to the water on her back or in her
mouth. I never saw the thing done or found anybody who had until this
summer, when Mr.
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