OUTDOORS 



sent from the woody lanes, the bluebird and 

 song-sparrow have fled with earlier days ; but 

 the jay still lingers to brave the elements and 

 carry a herald of resistance to the snows. 



Where a seed may be plucked from a 

 fence-rail, or a frosted apple dinted with his 

 strong bill, he wanders a feathered Ishmael- 

 ite with little heed for chill winds or dark 

 skies. 



Where the ploughs have cut their wake 

 through the land long furrows lie dark in the 

 shadow. There a plough-boy has followed 

 once, the blackbirds in his train. One lone 

 harrow has been marooned on a waste of 

 clods and slanted sideways toward the north. 

 Miles and miles of this ploughed ground 

 stretch away in all directions, and under and 

 over it all, even in this iron dearth, there is 

 a promise of harvest. The fences, the barbed- 

 wire ones, are monotonously practical, and 

 the weeds and vines shun them. But where 

 rail-fences separate the fields the grass hugs 

 the line, and divers vines and weedy growths 

 rise by corners and along the route. Here 

 black-capped chickadees dodge about; and 

 here, too, the rabbits lurk, with rolling eyes 

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