MOTHS OF THE LIMBERLOST 



On the east side of the village, about half its length, 

 swings a big gate, that opens into a long country lane. 

 It leads between fields of wheat and corn to a stretch of 

 woods pasture, lying on a hillside, that ends at the river. 

 This covers many acres, most of the trees have been cut; 

 the land rises gradually to a crest, that is crowned by a 

 straggling old snake fence, velvety black in places, gray 

 with lint in others, and liberally decorated its entire 

 length with lichens, in every shade of gray and green. 

 Its corners are filled with wild flowers, ferns, gooseberries, 

 raspberries, black and red haw% papaw, wild grapevines, 

 and trees of all varieties. Across the fence a sumac 

 covered embankment falls precipitately to the Wabash, 

 where it sweeps around a great curve at Horseshoe Bend. 

 The bed is stone and gravel, the water flows shallow and 

 pure in the sunlight, and mallows and willows fringe 

 the banks. 



Beside this stretch of river most of one summer was 

 spent, because there were two broods of cardinals, whose 

 acquaintance I was cultivating, raised in those sumacs. 

 The place w^as very secluded, as the water was not deep 

 enough for fishing or swimming. On days when the 

 cardinals were contrary, or to do the birds justice, when 

 they had experiences with an owl the previous night, or 

 with a hawk in the morning, and were restless or undulj^ 

 excited, much grist for my camera could be found on the 

 river banks. 



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