232 THE FRIENDSHIP OF NATURE 



left down, when in November the last 

 cow walked through, holds an old 

 chestnut, and from it a flock of crows 

 have just flown. In the next field, 

 which marks the edge of a clearing, 

 the cornstalks are stacked like the tents 

 of an Indian village, and the field mice 

 rustle in and out among them, the 

 crows keeping a jealous watch. On 

 the edge of the farm-house piazza some 

 fowl are roosting, and give a life touch 

 with their red combs and gray and 

 white feathers. How welcome seems 

 the smoke that floats from the stone 

 chimney, and how pleasant is the greet- 

 ing that comes from the geraniums 

 inside the window, who turn their 

 blooms to the glass as if they tried to 

 keep count of the passers. The bark 

 of the ragged brown collie sounds 

 cheerfully human; he curves his back 

 and wags his tail in a most apologetic 



