The swamp was palpitant with life.  Every pair of birds that had flocked to it in the spring was now multiplied by from two to ten.  The young were tame from Freckles’ tri-parenthood, and so plump and sleek that they were quite as beautiful as their elders, even if in many cases they lacked their brilliant plumage.  It was the same story of increase everywhere.  There were chubby little ground-hogs scudding on the trail.  There were cunning baby coons and opossums peeping from hollow logs and trees.  Young muskrats followed their parents across the lagoons.

If you could come upon a family of foxes that had not yet disbanded, and see the young playing with a wild duck’s carcass that their mother had brought, and note the pride and satisfaction in her eyes as she lay at one side guarding them, it would be a picture not to be forgotten.  Freckles never tired of studying the devotion of a fox mother to her babies.  To him, whose early life had been so embittered by continual proof of neglect and cruelty in human parents toward their children, the love of these furred and feathered folk of the Limberlost was even more of a miracle than to the Bird Woman and the Angel.

The Angel liked the baby rabbits and squirrels.  Earlier in the season, when the young were yet very small, it so happened that at times Freckles could give into her hands one of these little ones.  Then it was pure joy to stand back and watch her heaving breast, flushed cheek, and shining eyes.  Hers were such lovely eyes.  Freckles had discovered lately that they were not so dark as he had thought them at first, but that the length and thickness of lash, by which they were shaded, made them appear darker than they really were.  They were forever changing.  Now sparkling and darkling with wit, now humid with sympathy, now burning with the fire of courage, now taking on strength of color with ambition, now flashing indignantly at the abuse of any creature.

She had carried several of the squirrel and bunny babies home, and had littered the conservatory with them.  Her care of them was perfect.  She was learning her natural history from nature, and having much healthful exercise.  To her, they were the most interesting of all, but the Bird Woman preferred the birds, with a close second in the moths and butterflies.

Brown butterfly time had come.  The edge of the swale was filled with milkweed, and other plants beloved of them, and the air was golden with the flashing satin wings of the monarch, viceroy, and argynnis.  They outnumbered those of any other color three to one.

Among the birds it really seemed as if the little yellow fellows were in the preponderance.  At least, they were until the redwinged blackbirds and bobolinks, that had nested on the upland, suddenly saw in the swamp the garden of the Lord and came swarming by hundreds to feast and adventure upon it these last few weeks before migration.  Never was there a finer feast spread for the birds.  The grasses were filled with seeds:  so, too, were weeds of every variety.  Fall berries were ripe.  Wild grapes and black haws were ready.  Bugs were creeping everywhere.  The muck was yeasty with worms.  Insects filled the air.  Nature made glorious pause for holiday before her next change, and by none of the frequenters of the swamp was this more appreciated than by the big black chickens.