Sometimes for an instant he scanned the surface of the lake for signs of breaking fish or splash of migrant water bird.

Again his gaze wandered up the steep hill, crowned with giant trees, whose swelling buds he could see and smell.

Straight before him lay a low marsh, through which the little creek that gurgled and tumbled down hill curved, crossed the drive some distance below, and entered the lake of Lost Loons.
While the trees were bare, and when the air was clear as now, he could see the spires of Onabasha, five miles away, intervening cultivated fields, stretches of wood, the long black line of the railway, and the swampy bottom lands gradually rising to the culmination of the tree-crowned summit above him.

His cocks were crowing warlike challenges to rivals on neighbouring farms.

His hens were carolling their spring egg-song.