2 SUMMER 



Do not tell anybody, least of all yourself, that you 

 love the out-of-doors, unless you have your own path 

 to the woods, your own cross-cut to the pond, your 

 own particular huckleberry-patch and fishing-holes 

 and friendships in the fields. The winds, the rain, the 

 1 -if stars, the green grass, even the birds and a multi- 

 ^ tude of other wild folk try to meet you more than half- 

 r:> way, try to seek you out even in the heart of the great 

 k$* city ; but the great out-of-doors you must seek, for it 

 , C, is not in books, nor in houses, nor in cities. It is 

 U out at the end of the car-line or just beyond the 

 ';, back-yard fence, maybe far enough away, any- 

 Bf how, to make it necessary for you to put on your 

 ,''*/ tramping shoes and with your good stout stick go 

 JKg forth. 



J; You must learn to be a good tramper.' You thought 

 ^ you learned how to walk soon after you got out of 

 the cradle, and perhaps you did, but most persons 

 p only know how to hobble when they get into the un- 

 paved paths of the woods. 



With stout, well-fitting shoes, broad in the toe and 

 heel ; light, stout clothes that will not catch the 

 briers, good bird-glasses, and a bite of lunch against 

 the noon, swing out on your legs; breathe to the 

 bottom of your lungs ; balance your body on your 

 hips, not on your collar-bones, and, going leisurely, 

 fjk but not slowly (for crawling is deadly dull), do ten 

 miles up a mountain-side or through the brush ; and 

 if at the end you feel like eating up ten miles more, 



