Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

an old rotten log, but I could see nothing. I soon was quite close and after vainly searching the place with my eyes,I lost patience and set to furiously tearing the log apart. Of course my rashness got me nothing.

Coming back to camp again,as I was about to cross the creek, I noticed a long line of bubbles coming up out of the water. Stoppingover, I saw that they were coming from underneath a tiny pebble. Pulling the pebble away disclosed nothing and so I scraped away some sand. When the mud cleared away, I saw a tiny hole - from which the bubbles poured. Jim, whom I had called, said there might be a mussel down in the sand, but my digging showed nothing. Presently they ceased coming. There were dozens of tiny minnows here and they showed a rabid curiosity of what was going on and were accordingly quite time.

So the time passed.

Before every sun-down, especially in the country, there came what is called the quiet hour. More appropriately might it be called the solemn hour. The sun low-down became a soft