THE BARE, BROWN FIELDS 



and timid ears, palpitating at the least sound 

 of approaching footsteps. The old rail-fence 

 has assumed new dignity and individuality 

 since the wire strands came into use. Each 

 is now a pioneer, with a history of its own, 

 reminiscent of the old red school-house, the 

 husking-bee, the snow-drifts piled against it. 



Above shorn stubbles, now blackening in 

 the advancing season, the hawk flies, paint- 

 ing broad circles in the skies, surveying his 

 dominion below with regal deliberation. The 

 fields are his demesne. The wandering mouse 

 may well hesitate to emerge from his covert, 

 the defenceless rabbit has in him an enemy 

 vigilant and hungry. Even the farm-yard is 

 not exempt from his levies, and the squall of 

 hens, the fluttering of wings, and a rush for 

 the family artillery form an accompaniment 

 of his daily round for food. Betimes he sits 

 on some dead limb in a pasture conveniently 

 near the timber, and meditates serenely. A 

 pirate of the upper air, a wandering free- 

 booter, he has no excuses to make, no morals 

 to mend. 



In one corner of a pasture an old windmill 

 creaks in blasts that drive westward, and 

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