FIELD AND STUDY 



foxes he has killed or pursued, and just what it was 

 that turned those that escaped him from their run- 

 way, but he can tell you little about the lesser 

 game what the mice and squirrels are doing, or 

 the chickadees or woodpeckers are saying; his inter- 

 ests lie elsewhere. Downy might be excavating his 

 winter retreat in a dry stub or branch over his 

 head, and he not know it. A chipmunk might be 

 digging his hole in the field the farmer is ploughing 

 in September, and he none the wiser. The poet can 

 say to the farmer: 



"One harvest from the field 



Homeward brought the oxen strong; 

 A second crop thine acres yield 

 Which I gather in a song." 



And an Audubon or a Fabre would bring home an 

 equal and a different harvest. 



Our interest in nature is a reflection of our inter- 

 est in ourselves; nature is ourselves extended and 

 seen externally. We experience a thrill of interest 

 when we learn that the plants breathe and sleep as 

 we do; that they have ingenious devices for dis- 

 seminating their seed and for securing cross-ferti- 

 lization; that there is competition among them and 

 among the trees for the light and air and moisture 

 and the fertility of the soil; that they protect them- 

 selves against the sun and the cold, and against 

 the wet. They have all their struggles and their 



