sonable in it, as in bibliomania, for instance. 

 I discover a gaunt, punky old pine, bored full of 

 holes, and standing among acres of green, char- 

 acterless companions, with the held breath, the 

 jumping pulse, the bulging eyes of a collector 

 stumbling upon a Caxton in a latest-publication 

 book-store. But my excitement is really with 

 some cause ; for sh ! look ! In that round 

 hole up there, just under the broken limb, the 

 flame of the red-headed woodpecker a light in 

 one of the windows of the woods. Peep through 

 it. What rooms ! What people ! No ; I never 

 paid ten cents extra for a volume because it was 

 full of years and mildew and rare errata (I some- 

 times buy books at a reduction for these acci- 

 dents) ; but I have walked miles, and passed 

 forests of green, good-looking trees, to wait in 

 the slim shade of some tottering, limbless old 

 stump. 



Within the reach of my landscape four of these 

 ancient derelicts hold their stark arms against 

 the horizon, while every wood-path, pasture- 

 lane, and meadow-road leads past hollow apples, 

 gums, or chestnuts, where there are sure to be 

 happenings as the seasons come and go. Sooner 

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