Through the Lost River Valley 33 



the railroad track for the highroad. Soon we were overtaken 

 by an attenuated-looking native, seated on a load of hickory 

 staves drawn by a pair of fat horses. He politely offered the 

 strangers a "lift," for he was going a "right smart way." 

 His invitation was speedily accepted, for March mud makes 

 tired tramps. The driver confided to his guests who sat on 

 the body of the load that he worked from sunrise to sunset 

 cutting and drawing hickory for the sum of sixty cents a day. 

 On this he fed, clothed, and housed a wife and four children. 

 We felt no need to commiserate this man on his lot, because 

 he said he was contented. What is there more than this? 

 This hewer of wood was a man of sentiment. My heart went 

 out to him. 



"Some people think I am queer," he said, "because I 

 stop work when the brown thrush sings, and because I don't 

 let my boys go bird-nesting." 



Bless him! It is good to know that the small army of 

 "cranks" has recruits where they are most needed. 



From a beech at the left of the road came a sharp "Quank, 

 quank." Quick as a flash our Hoosier stave-splitter said: 

 "That's a nuthatch. Most people hereabouts call it a sap- 

 sucker. It ain't." 



Here was knowledge based on observation, and not on 

 books. The bird was a white-breasted nuthatch, and the 

 experience of a few days showed that it was known to most 

 of the inhabitants of that Lost River Valley as a sapsucker, 

 a name suggestive of injury to trees, and a name which has 

 brought upon the tribe of Indiana nuthatches much unde- 

 served persecution. 



A scream, "Keo-u, keo-u," came sharply across a field 

 which stretched away toward the river. A large hawk was 



