UNDER THE MAPLES 



when their eggs were suddenly exposed. In fact, 

 there was live natural history under every stone 

 about us. Some children brought me pieces of 

 stone, which they picked up close by, which 

 sheltered a variety of cocoon-building spiders. 

 One small, dark-striped spider was carrying about 

 its ball of eggs, the size of a large pea, attached 

 to the hind part of its body. This became de- 

 tached, when she seized it eagerly and bore it 

 about held between her legs. Another fragment 

 of stone, the size of one's hand, sheltered the 

 chrysalis of some species of butterfly which was 

 attached to it at its tail. It was surprising to 

 see this enshrouded creature, blind and deaf, 

 wriggle and thrash about as if threatening us with 

 its wrath for invading its sanctuary. One would 

 about as soon expect to see an egg protest. 



Thus the naturalist finds his pleasures every- 

 where. Every solitude to him is peopled. Every 

 morning or evening walk yields him a harvest to 

 eye or ear. 



The born naturalist is one of the most lucky 

 men in the world. Winter or summer, rain or 

 shine, at home or abroad, walking or riding, his 

 pleasures are always near at hand. The great 

 book of nature is open before him and he has only 

 to turn the leaves. 



A friend sitting on my porch in a hickory 

 rocking-chair the other day was annoyed by one 



