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By Florence

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Chipmunks by the score gallop around, mad with curiosity. Chickadees swarm in the pines, right side up or upside down, it doesn't seem to matter; their dee-dee-dee's are con39 stant. Starring the camp are dragonflies of every kind, bronze ones, gigantic emerald ones almost as big as the chickadees, small ones of gossamer blue, which are my special favorites. And when I went down the shore to get driftwood, I ran into a migration of yellow warblers, hundreds of them, flicking in and out of the foliage like yellow sparks.

Back to the first lake of the chain, where there were beaver houses to investigate. Then across our own lake again, laughing and talking nonsense. But at the inlet to the third, we fell silent. If we didn't make a noise, Lee muttered, pretending he could talk if he wanted to, we might see a deer. The water was without a ripple. Its candid ring was edged with tall bulrushes, spare dark whips exactly reflected. Great pines stood up around it in lovely broken lines, and down a narrow marsh we saw a great blue heron motionless in the tufted grass.

We found the swamp but no moose. Only more loons. But they repaid us. I had never before been near enough to see how they run along the water's surface before they fly, and their spattering strides across the lake amused me enormously. Nor had I known before that they can vary their specific gravity at will, so that they float either with their spotted black and white bodies showing or with just the sleek black heads and striped necks above water. We made a game of timing their long dives under water —they are magnificent submarines — and seeing who could guess how long they would stay submerged.

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