while they are so tiny. How I wanted to fly with them when they 

 arose and flew to the top of our old woodshed. 



Then we had turkeys on that old Indiana farm when I was a boy. 

 Of all the broods it was considered the most difficult to brood and 

 raise turkeys. They seemed to resent domestication and would not 

 accommodate themselves to our artful ways. I used to feed them 

 curds and bread and milk and humor them along till they were able 

 to roam the fields, when they were back to their natural ways. 



The easiest thing to raise of all my boyhood fowl was the duck. 

 What a world of satisfaction a boy gets out of watching a brood of 

 baby ducks having their first swim. To see them duck and splash and 

 swim would start the most dutiful boy to the "old swimmin' hole." 

 To my boyish fancy the baby life of a duck seemed the most interesting. 

 They took such a joy in living. They would waddle around through 

 the blue grass and white clover with their heads low and necks stretched 

 looking for insect life and then bethink themselves of their swimming 

 pool at the corner of the old barn and all make a break and lunge into 

 the water and stand on their heads trying to feed from the bottom. 



When I look back and think of the keen, pure joys of boyhood days 

 on that old Indiana farm among the barnyard fowl I feel almost 

 resentful that the breeding of fowls should become so much commer- 

 cialized. Why could we hot breed them more for pleasure, just for the 

 keen joy of evolving perfect things. Now we make our bread and 

 butter from producing large quantities of fowl. In this commercial 

 age we are rushed off our feet from the sentimental to the cold plain 

 facts of earning an existence. Little did I think of the dollars my 

 broods would bring when rearing chicks in my boyhood days. It was 

 for the pure joy and love of it. 



What a world of pets I had on that old Indiana farm! The boy 

 who has never known what it is to care for pets and love them and 

 invent houses and coops and cages for them has missed much in life. 

 In memory I can even now see the most intimate pets of which I was 

 so fond. My boyish dreams were of a whole menagerie of pets. What 

 curious devices I studied up for the comfort of my pets. In those days 

 there were large forests of oak and elm and hickory and maple and 

 beech, and what a heaven for a barefoot boy! My father was well 

 versed in the names and habits of all the plant and animal life of the 

 forest, and much I owe to him for the deep love of nature which I 

 possess. In this fairy-land forest I roamed and studied the birds and 

 squirrels and flowers. The wild birds of the forest had a wonderful 

 fascination for me, and how well I knew their habits. I knew where 

 their nests were hidden, and what a joy to search for new nests and 

 stand in admiration and awe watching the old birds care for the 

 young. The robin built a nest of mud and sticks, usually on the 

 corner of an old rail fence. The old snag in the clearing was the resort 

 of the woodpecker and the old bare trunk was full of holes which led 

 to the nest deeper into the rotten wood. With an upward swoop the 

 red head catches an insect in the air and with periodical flapping of 

 the wings moves in wave-like motion over the cornfield toward the old 

 snag where the young at the little round entrance set up a wild cry 

 for the food. How they jaw and scold over all the old dead limbs in 

 the forest! I like the silent forest at the noon hour when there is 



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