The Road to Dumbiedykes 



I write, and I deal with fact through- 

 out, not fiction. 



It was during those first alluring days 

 of mystery when, answering the call 

 of the south wind and the April 

 showers, the violets had forced their 

 way through the dead leaves and other 

 vegetable detritus, the accumulations 

 of the winter in the wood, when all 

 that brave company of oaks white, 

 burr and black had taken on those 

 infinitely delicate grays and greens and 

 browns that are the despair of artists, 

 and mark the early stirring of the 

 blood in arboreal arteries. 



The flying squirrel, so-called was 

 once a common object in and about 

 our mid-west timber lands, but it had 

 been many a long year since I had seen 

 one, and we rejoiced accordingly at 

 a discovery which added such a dis- 

 tinct attraction to the leafy precincts 

 through which we walked daily to and 

 from the cottage. The crows, jays, 

 woodpeckers, cat birds, thrushes, 



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