26 s:enant!$ of tJir STrees 



gleaming in the spacious arch sends out 

 a cheerful, homelike light, and its wax- 

 ing and waning help to make the night 

 spectral. Then shrouded and hooded 

 figures dance and wave their arms wildly 

 in the clouds of steam that rise from the 

 sap pan, while a screech-owl fills in the 

 pauses between stories and songs with 

 hair-raising laughter and shrieks. Even 

 more ghostly than the graveyard scene in 

 Hamlet, is a winter night in the woods. 



Like Hiawatha, I early learned the 

 use of bow and arrow, but could not slay 

 the roebuck, or even a chipmunk. The 

 only thing I remember killing with either 

 bow and arrow, or cross-gun, was a pine 

 grosbeak, that a friend wanted to mount. 

 But the big barn door and the gate-post 

 suffered, and even the house bore arrow 

 marks. There are scores of rude play- 

 things that every country child knows 



