THREE OF US

_July 14_.--My two kingfishers still haunt the pond. In the bright sun

and breeze and perfect temperature of to-day, noon, I am sitting here

by one of the gurgling brooks, dipping a French water-pen in the limpid

crystal, and using it to write these lines, again watching the feather'd

twain, as they fly and sport athwart the water, so close, almost

touching into its surface. Indeed there seem to be three of us. For

nearly an hour I indolently look and join them while they dart and turn

and take their airy gambols, sometimes far up the creek disappearing for

a few moments, and then surely returning again, and performing most

of their flight within sight of me, as if they knew I appreciated and

absorb'd their vitality, spirituality, faithfulness, and the rapid,

vanishing, delicate lines of moving yet quiet electricity they draw for

me across the spread of the grass, the trees, and the blue sky. While

the brook babbles, babbles, and the shadows of the boughs dapple in the

sunshine around me, and the cool west-by-nor'-west wind faintly soughs

in the thick bushes and tree tops.

Among the objects of beauty and interest now beginning to appear quite

plentifully in this secluded spot, I notice the humming-bird, the

dragon-fly with its wings of slate-color'd guaze, and many varieties of

beautiful and plain butterflies, idly flapping among the plants and wild

posies. The mullein has shot up out of its nest of broad leaves, to a

tall stalk towering sometimes five or six feet high, now studded

with knobs of golden blossoms. The milk-weed, (I see a great gorgeous

creature of gamboge and black lighting on one as I write,) is in flower,

with its delicate red fringe; and there are profuse clusters of a

feathery blossom waving in the wind on taper stems. I see lots of these

and much else in every direction, as I saunter or sit. For the last half

hour a bird has persistently kept up a simple, sweet, melodious song,

from the bushes. (I have a positive conviction that some of these birds

sing, and others fly and flirt about here for my special benefit.)

Complete Prose Works Specimen Days and Collect, November Boughs and Goodbye My Fancy · 第 195 / 435 题