CHAPTER XV 



WATCHING THE DAY DIE 



IT was September 8th, so said the camp cal- 

 endar, but the day was an August day, 

 warm, bright, and calm, with bobolinks — 

 the rear-guard of their migrating army — 

 " chinking " overhead, Lapland longspurs click- 

 ing down from the North, a far-off crane flock 

 garooing from a dizzy height, the broadwing 

 hawk perched sleepily in the elm at the edge of 

 the roadway, duck flocks dozing out on the still 

 water, and all well with the drowsy autumn 

 world. 



But in at least one particular it was Septem- 

 ber; for at four o'clock a sizzling canvasback 

 was hauled from the little clay oven, and we — 

 Bobby the ground squirrel and I — fell to. It 

 was to be Bobby's last public appearance for 

 the autumn, and he celebrated the occasion ac- 

 cprdingly. He ate a portion of the meat and 



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