of 



with it a pair of field glasses. I even combine the 

 care of my pig and the study of the phoebes that share 

 his pen. Occasionally I drop everything and hunt for 

 a nest, as if life depended upon my finding it. But life 

 does n't, the more 's the pity, for me. Life depends 

 on the finding of things that are very different from 

 birds' nests, things that require a deal of hunting 

 the whole year around. Yet I take the time to hunt 

 birds' nests, too, for life is more than meat (I raise 

 a good many vegetables), and, after all, my life does 

 depend, in no small measure, upon my finding a few 

 birds' nests in June. 



I remember a June when I tried to get life out of 

 a grocery store, and the sickness of it comes over 

 me even yet at times. I sold kerosene oil, brown 

 sugar, coffee, salt mackerel, and plug tobacco. I 

 breathed the mingled breath of kerosene oil, brown 

 sugar, coffee, salt mackerel, and plug tobacco, the 

 odor of mere money, when I knew the fox grapes 

 were in blossom, the magnolias and the azaleas ; 

 when I knew the fields were green and the birds 

 were in song ! I have longed for many things, but 

 never as I longed that June for the farm, for the long, 

 long day, yes, and for the long, long row. It was 



130 



