NOVEMBER 153 



Uow tliiu soeiu tlie old woodlands westward, 

 compared with their dark, almost impenetrable 

 masses in boyish days ! My farmer host said he 

 had recently cut down the old cottonwood in which 

 the tree sparrow lingered that November after- 

 noon so long ago. Trees of My Boyhood! The 

 ^^^[llow where the bees buzzed about fragrant cat- 

 kins in early May, where the swing hung, where 

 the flag floated; the choke-cherry, whose red-black 

 fruit was gladly abandoned to the eager robins — 

 the ' ' bird-tree ' ' ; the hard maple in the corner of 

 the yard, firm, compact, clear in outline, noble in 

 autumnal coloring; the two great cottonwoods, 

 falling when they fell, with angry crash nearly 

 across the broadest street in town ! Trees, also, 

 of more adventurous if not more romantic days 

 of other youths in other regions! This cotton- 

 wood, for happy example, of Parkman's camp 

 along Laramie Creek: ''Our daily routine soon 

 became as regular as that of a well-ordered house- 

 hold. The weather-beaten old tree was in the cen- 

 tre; our rifles generally rested against its vast 

 trunk, and our saddles were flung on the ground 

 around it; its distorted roots were so twisted as to 

 form one or two convenient arm-chairs where we 

 could sit in the shade and read or smoke ; but meal- 

 times became, on the whole, the most interesting 

 hours of the day, and a bountiful provision was 

 made for them. An antelope or a deer usually 



