a famous run-way for deer. So much tradi- 

 tion avouches. Three miles away, the Buf- 

 falo Ford, across a wide, swift stream, holds 

 tangible memory of those giants of the 

 plain. 



Men yet living have seen them cross it 

 by hundreds by thousands. Now, lack-a- 

 day ! their heads are dust, their bones 

 ableach on the lessening prairie. Yet these 

 goodly saplings of their day stand stanch 

 and tall, laughing rarely with the summer, 

 daring the winter's stress. They are intol- 

 erant of neighbors less lordly. No low 

 shrubs cumber them at root. Aspiring sap- 

 lings fight hard for life in their shade, and 

 win only by shooting up, miraculous tall and 

 slim, to claim a share of sunshine. 



All overhead is a tangle of locked boughs. 

 You can see no sky clear of their lacy net- 

 work. Wherefore, never look hence at the 

 horned new moon. Seen first " through 

 brush" she is sure presage of woe. Now 

 she is invisible. Your eye may range safely 

 up and up, a full hundred feet to the branchy 

 tips. Let it fall slowly, slowly, marking all 

 beneath. Here you may surprise a-many 

 sylvan secrets. Something big and dark 

 sits huddled against the great oak's mid- 

 most branch so high that only a hunter 



