262 IValks in New England 



not care to show themselves to men, knowing how 

 mischievous and murderous they are. Even the 

 wanderer most innocent of their blood is no bet 

 ter off than the hunter, not so well off, because 

 the hunter has his eye out for killing and there is 

 no instinct so strong as the killing instinct in the 

 half-civilized. He who has learned, or who did 

 not need to learn 



&quot; Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 

 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels, &quot; 



sees the squirrel and hears his chatter, or beholds 

 the grouse break out of covert and rush forth 

 in booming flight, sees in these beautiful crea 

 tures of free Nature other manifestations of the 

 divine and inspiring life, and would almost as soon 

 think of killing a man as them. And for that 

 matter, but we will go no further. While one 

 notes such marks of the house-keeping life that 

 goes on so steadily (were it not for man), the crows 

 are crying overhead, and beat through the air, 

 sweeping in salient and re-entrant curves, until 

 they melt into the distance and are gone. In 

 thickets, if one pauses long enough, he will hear 

 the whispering of the few lesser birds that stop 

 here through the winter or pause a while on their 

 way elsewhere. These small birds, the chickadee, 

 a sparrow or two, do not sing, but they whisper 



