DECEMBER OUT-OF-DOORS. 57 



the more so, perhaps, because of a thick 

 autumnal haze. It might be called excellent 

 Christmas weather, I said to myself, when 

 a naturally prudent man, no longer young, 

 could sit perched upon a fence rail at the 

 top of a hill, drinking in the beauties of the 

 landscape. 



At the station, after my descent, I met a 

 young man of the neighborhood. "Do you 

 know why they call that Turkey Hill? " said 

 I. "No, sir, I don't," he answered. I 

 suggested that probably somebody had killed 

 a wild turkey up there at some time or 

 other. He looked politely incredulous. " I 

 don't think there are any wild turkeys up 

 there," said he; "/never saw any." He 

 was not more than twenty-five years old, and 

 the last Massachusetts turkey was killed on 

 Mount Tom in 1847, so that I had no doubt 

 he spoke the truth. Probably he took me 

 for a simple-minded fellow, while I thought 

 nothing worse of him than that he was one of 

 those people, so numerous and at the same 

 time so much to be pitied, who have never 

 studied ornithology. 



The 25th was warmer even than the 24th ; 

 and it, likewise, I spent upon the South 



