36 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



earth mold which could the quicker be used in 

 the fashioning of new objects for the chemistry 

 of nature to work upon. 



At half past five I start forth on my morn- 

 ing's mission of destruction. This thing of 

 hunting squirrels with a shotgun is a boy's 

 sport. I like it because it is such. It gives one 

 a good excuse for plodding up and down the 

 slopes, for living hours in the open. It puts 

 new blood into half filled cells, and once in a 

 while a new thought into a half befogged brain. 

 On such days as this I would be a boy, not a 

 man. I would have hope reign supreme in my 

 being and care far away on a journey. 



The sun is hidden behind a foggy haze of 

 clouds which everywhere curtains from sight 

 the dome of blue. It is a pleasing change from 

 the intense heat and glowing sunshine of the 

 past week. Pleasing say I, though I love the 

 sun, but even he overdoes things at times. 



On such a morn one listens and expects soft 

 wooing sounds, such as the crooning of doves, 

 the half hushed trill of ground crickets, the 

 subdued chattering of sparrows. The grass is 

 lush with dew and in my rubber boots I tread 

 as softly and noiselessly the pasture pathways 

 as did the Indians of old when along these 

 slopes they passed in moccasined feet. Noble 

 game they hunted elk, deer, wild turkey, 

 pheasant. The greed of my progenitors has 



