WAYLAYING THE DAWN 

STALKING THE WILD GRAPE 

THE FROG RENDEZVOUS 

A BUTTERFLY CHASE 

DOWN STREAM 

BROOK MAGIC 

IN THE PONKAPOAG BOGS 

SOME BUTTERFLY FRIENDS 

THE RESTING TIME OF THE BIRDS 

THE POND AT LOW TIDE 

HOW THE RAIN CAME

He was still sitting on his perch greeting the gold of the morning sun with melodious uproar  

The fox may slink for an hour unscared, waiting with watchful eye on the neighboring chicken coop 

The mother bird, dancing and mincing along 

Out from among the birches she sails gracefully, a veritable queen of the fairies 

There was the swish of wings, the snip-snap of a bird's beak, and it was all over 

The way of the “kiver” is this. There is a single, snappy, business-like bob, then another, then three in quick succession 

That such things are not seen oftener is simply because people are dull and go to bed instead of sitting out under the witch-hazel at midnight of a full moon 

Of a clear midsummer evening you may hear the muskrat grubbing roots there . . . and hear his snort and splash when he dives at sudden sight of you 

Every boy who knows the country in summer knows him by his rich, red coloration, his strong, black-bordered wings with their black veins 

The English sparrow has the true instincts of the browbeating coward 

The skunk doesn't know where he is going and he isn't even on his way 

My lone quail sat on a rock in the pasture, tipped his head back a little, swelled his white throat, and whistled