ch. Perhaps fifty feet from the ouzel nest, as I lingered to admire
the picturesque rapids in the brook, a slight movement drew my attention
to a little projection on a stone, not six feet from me, where a small
chipmunk sat pertly up, holding in his two hands, and eagerly
nibbling--was it, could it be a strawberry in this rocky place?

Of course I stopped instantly to look at this pretty sight. I judged him
to be a youngster, partly because of his evident fearlessness of his
hereditary enemy, a human being; more on account of the saucy way in
which he returned my stare; and most, perhaps, from the appearance of
absorbing delight, in which there was a suggestion of the unexpected,
with which he discussed that sweet morsel. Closely I watched him as he
turned the treasure round and round in his deft little paws, and at last
dropped the rifled hull. Would he go for another, and where? In an
instant, with a parting glance at me, to make sure that I had not moved,
he scrambled down his rocky throne, and bounded in great leaps over the
path to a crumpled paper, which I saw at once was one of the bags with
which tourists sow the earth. But its presence there did not rouse in my
furry friend the indignation it excited in me. To him it was a
treasure-trove, for into it he disappeared without a moment's
hesitation; and almost before I had jumped to the conclusion that it
contained the remains of somebody's luncheon, he reappeared, holding in
his mouth another strawberry, bounded over the ground to his former
seat, and proceeded to dispose of that one, also. The scene was so
charming and his pleasure so genuine that I forgave the careless
traveler on the spot, and only wished I had a kodak to secure a
permanent picture of this unique strawberry festival.

As I loitered along, gazing idly at the brook, ever listening and
longing for the wren song, I was suddenly struck motionless by a loud,
shrill, and peculiar cry. It was plainly a bird voice, and it seemed to
come almost from the stream itself. It ceased in a moment, and then
followed a burst of song, liquid as the singing of the brook, and
enchantingly sweet, though very low. I was astounded. Who could sing
like that up in this narrow mountain gorge, where I supposed the canyon
wren was king?

At the point where I stood, a straggling shrub, the only one for rods,
hung over the brink. I silently sank to a seat behind it, lest I disturb
the singer, and remained without movement.