IN THE WAKE OF THE PARTRIDGE 197 



days when the family burial-ground was in 

 one corner of the farm itself. 



We learn to know where the springs of pure 

 water are, welling up out of the deep ground 

 in a tiny pool under some big rock or between 

 the roots of a great yellow birch tree. And 

 when the sun shines hot at noon, and a lost 

 trail and a vanished bird leave us to the sud 

 den realization that we are tired and thirsty, 

 we know where is the nearest water. We 

 know, too, the knack of drinking so as not to 

 swallow the little gnats that skim its surface 

 you must blow them back ever so gently, 

 and drink before they close in again. How 

 good it tastes as we lie at full length on the 

 matted brown leaves ! How good the crackers 

 taste, too, and the crisp apples, as we sit by 

 the spring and rest, and talk over the morn 

 ing s hunt and plan the afternoon s subject 

 to the caprices of the birds. 



But I suppose the very best about hunting 

 can never be told at all. That is true of any 

 really good thing, and there is nothing better 

 than a long day after the birds. It is always 

 good to be out of doors. And there are seasons 

 when one is glad to wander slowly over the 



