A WOODLAND PESSIMIST. 27 



hours in revery. A turtle dove this minute is 

 co-o-ing unto me in soft low drawling tone her 

 lullaby. A tree cricket adds its note unto the 

 melody. Both are optimists of high degree. 

 The pessimist of these woods is the wood pewee. 

 He seems to be silent here these August days, 

 at least unto me his call has not yet come. June 

 and July are the months in which he most de- 

 lights to complain. Then every glen and alcove 

 is peopled by a pair, and pessimism hereabouts 

 is at a premium. Would that my soul possessed 

 the optimism of the red-eyed vireo and not the 

 pessimism of the wood pewee. 



Just now I saw an old straw hat moving above 

 the top of the underbrush on the slope of the 

 ridge back of the tent. A man's head is doubt- 

 less beneath it, as the two are usually found 

 in company. Hastening to hook together the 

 tent flaps I "vamose the ranch," for I am not 

 at home to visitors during the forenoons. 



With a tin basin as a receptacle I move up 

 the valley to three or four small patches of 

 blackberries. Owing to the long drought, the 

 fruit is badly dried, but I get about a quart to 

 stew for dinner. A berry picker by experience, 

 I would almost enter a wager to pick ten gal- 

 lons on time with any man. Between the ages 

 of nine and fifteen I earned most of the money 

 I had to spend by picking wild berries during 

 their season; first raspberries, then blackber- 



