_Nov. 14_.--As I sit here by the creek, resting after my walk, a warm
languor bathes me from the sun. No sound but a cawing of crows, and no
motion but their black flying figures from over-head, reflected in the
mirror of the pond below. Indeed a principal feature of the scene to-day
is these crows, their incessant cawing, far or near, and their countless
flocks and processions moving from place to place, and at times almost
darkening the air with their myriads. As I sit a moment writing this
by the bank, I see the black, clear-cut reflection of them far below,
flying through the watery looking-glass, by ones, twos, or long
strings. All last night I heard the noises from their great roost in a
neighboring wood.