IN THE WAKE OF THE PARTRIDGE 195 



where the mud is too deep to venture, where 

 the sprawling, moss-covered roots of the 

 maples offer grateful support; I know the 

 brushy edges where the blossoming witch- 

 hazel fills the air with its quaint fragrance; I 

 know the sunny, open places where the tufted 

 ferns, shoulder high, and tawny gold after the 

 early frosts, give insecure but welcome foot 

 ing; I know too well indeed the thickets 

 of black alder that close in about me and tug 

 at my gun and drive me to fury. 



Yes, we know that swamp, and other 

 swamps only less well. We know the rock 

 ledges, the big dry woods of oak and chest 

 nut and maple and beech. We know the 

 ravines where the great hemlocks keep the air 

 always dim and still, and one goes silent- 

 footed over the needle floor. We grow familiar, 

 too, with all the little things about the coun 

 try. We discover new haunts of the fringed 

 gentian, the wonderful, the capricious, with 

 its unbelievable blue that one sees nowhere 

 else save under the black lashes of some Irish 

 eyes. We find the shy spring orchids, gone to 

 seed now, but we remember and seek them 

 out again next May. We surprise the spring 



