irn tbe Moot)s witb tbe Bow 



loneliness is the atmosphere he breathes. 

 After the disappearance of Jarvis I felt 

 free to turn myself loose and make a fine 

 stir in Arcadia. The wildest shooting 

 mood was upon me, and whatever moved 

 became a target for my shafts. I am 

 afraid to make a full record of an hour's 

 business ; the wood-pewees whined because 

 of my activity, and the crested flycatcher 

 whistled dolefully ; but I laughed and shot 

 and made notes. The ozone seemed al- 

 most too plentiful in that delicious moun- 

 tain air. 



My stay with Jarvis added a new note 

 to experience, not so much on Jarvis's 

 personal account as through the accidents 

 of time and place. This genial little val- 

 ley in the wild mountains, with a rivulet — 

 the upper water of a beautiful river — flow- 

 ing down its center, and bottom-lands 

 bordered with terraced and rock-littered 

 fells on either side, was a roadway over the 

 Blue Ridge, up which, at a leisurely pace, 

 the singing and chirruping bird-migrants 

 wended northward. Every morning I was 

 out early to get the full benefit of their 

 227 



