XII 

 in 



IT is certainly a humble environment. The delicious 

 spring of water, the plenty of wild, cool air, and the 

 clean pavement of loose stones do not surround this 

 home as they did the home of Mr. Burroughs's 

 phoebes, nor does this look "out upon some wild 

 scene and overhung by beetling crags." Instead, this 

 phcebe's nest is stuck close up to the low board roof 

 in my pig-pen. 



"You have taken a handful of my wooded acres," 

 says Nature, "and if you have not improved them, 

 you at least have changed them greatly. But they 

 are mine still. Be friendly now, go softly, and you 

 shall have them all, and I shall have them all, too. 

 We will share them together." 



And we do. Every part of the fourteen acres is 

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