MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



no thought of aught beyond the blissful present. 

 And so the days pass, as they do for happy, irre- 

 sponsible children, and the bright dream is dis- 

 pelled only when the Indian awakens to the sight 

 of a snow-covered world. The short summer has 

 departed, grim winter is at the door, and he has 

 gathered no store to keep him and his alive 

 through its awful rigors. 



But the first snow always melts before the sun, 

 and, even as the rudely awakened Indian smokes 

 and ponders, patches of friendly brown earth re- 

 appear, and after a time genial days return. 

 They will be few in number, however. This 

 even he, the child-like red man, realizes, and after 

 them will come no mere flurrying forerunner, 

 but winter fierce, biting, implacable winter it- 

 self. 



The Indian heeds the warning, and in the 

 short time of respite he goes eagerly forth to 

 secure his supplies; and this summer aftermath, 

 this time of last opportunities, is called the Indian 

 summer. 



And now for another saunter. Let us direct 

 our steps toward yonder wild corner. You rec- 

 ognize it? For me this nook possesses the same 

 sweet, sad charm that lingers around a deserted 



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