ures of moose and deer, and snow-shoe rabbits that I have 

 ever seen were taken by men who make no claim of being 

 either professional photographers or professional naturalists. 

 The nature lover of course should have patience and sit down 

 and wait for an opportunity, for one usually sees more by 

 sitting down and waiting for things to come to one, than by 

 walking around and trying to find things. 



I remember very pleasantly one occasion when some friends 

 and myself were having our noon lunch under a big white pine, 

 in the top of which a pair of wild eagles had made their home. 

 From the ridge where we were seated, we could observe a 

 big moose cow feeding in the swamp on the edge of the lake. 

 It seemed almost a miracle that an animal of such size and 

 weight could walk around with ease on ground of that kind, 

 where horses and cattle would have been hopelessly mired. 

 For the first time I saw clearly why the Creator had put the 

 moose on stilts. It enables him to wade through almost any 

 marsh or swamp in the summer time and to make his way 

 through the snow in the winter time. 



If one would study wild birds, our North woods present 

 unequalled opportunities. As early as two o'clock in .the 

 morning you will hear the first fine whistling notes of the 

 white-throated sparrow. An hour or so later, will come from 

 the thicket the wonderful, indescribable melancholy love-song 

 of the hermit thrush, and the wierd notes of the Wilson 

 thrush. All day long, except through the hot hours of noon, 

 the notes of white throats, thrushes and numerous other 

 warblers will issue from the swamps and thickets until the 

 last white throat whistles his belated evening song about 

 ten o'clock at night. But even then the woods are not silent, 

 for the screech owl and. horned owl will utter their wild notes, 

 and on the roof and rafters of your cabin the timid wild mice 

 will run and play through the short hours of the summer 

 night. 



To one who has once spent a week in June in the North 

 woods, the songs of the hermit and Wilson thrush, the whistle 

 of the white throat, and the peculiar call of the olive-sided 

 fly* catcher, are unforgettable summer music. 



Near the haunts of the birds of song and poetry grow the 



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