of t$ 



waiting for an accident to reveal its maker and its 

 meaning to me. 



There were accidents and discoveries of many 

 sorts during these years, but not this particular acci- 

 dent. The accident you wait for is slow in coming. 



We were seated one evening on the porch listen- 

 ing to the whip-poor-wills, when some one said, 

 "There's your woodchuck singing again." Sure 

 enough, there sounded the tremulous woodchtick- 

 part ridge-coon-owl cry, and I slipped down through 

 the birches determined to know that cry if I had to 

 follow it all night. 



The moon was high and full, the footing almost noise- 

 less, and everything so quiet that I quickly located 

 the clucking sounds as coming from the orchard. I 

 came out of the birches into the wood road, and was 

 crossing the open field to the orchard, when some- 

 thing dropped with a swish and a vicious clacking 

 almost upon my head. I jumped from under, I 

 should say a part of my hair, and saw a screech 

 owl swoop softly up into the nearest apple tree. In- 

 stantly she turned toward me and uttered the gentle 

 purring cluck that I had been guessing so hard at for 

 at least three years. And even while I looked at her 



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