On days
when the cardinals were contrary, or to do the birds justice, when
they had experiences with an owl the previous night, or with a
hawk in the morning, and were restless or unduly excited, much
grist for my camera could be found on the river banks.
These were the most beautiful anywhere in my locality. The hum of
busy life was incessant. From the top twig of the giant sycamore
in Rainbow Bottom, the father of the cardinal flock hourly
challenged all creation to contest his right to one particular
sumac. The cardinals were the attraction there; across the fence
where the hill sloped the length of the pasture to the lane, lures
were many and imperative. Despite a few large trees, compelling
right to life by their majesty, that hillside was open pasture,
where the sunshine streamed all day long. Wild roses clambered
over stumps of fallen monarchs, and scrub oak sheltered resting
sheep. As it swept to the crest, the hillside was thickly dotted
with mullein, its pale yellow-green leaves spreading over the grass,
and its spiral of canary-coloured bloom stiffly upstanding.
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