106 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



and pushes aside the curtains of forty years 

 and more. Up the ravine to the left I have 

 trapped raccoons and on the hillside above 

 waited patiently for squirrels to show them- 

 selves, killing them in pairs as they came run- 

 ning down the sides of an old oak, now long 

 since gone. To my right is the mold of a beech 

 log which once rested on its limbs a few feet 

 above the earth. Beneath and about it I once 

 saw a covey of twenty or more young quails. 

 As I approached they scattered and, as if by 

 magic, disappeared, the mother meanwhile run- 

 ning ahead and fluttering as if crippled, in or- 

 der to lead me away from the vicinity of her 

 loved ones. Along the stream I have caught 

 minnows from almost every pool and have on 

 many occasions upturned most of the flat stones 

 while searching for beetles and salamanders. 

 None of these things I do this morn, but only 

 dream and ponder. 



A Camberwell beauty basks in a moist spot 

 on the gray Knobstone shale, opening slowly 

 and as slowly closing its handsome purplish 

 velvet-like wings. It is one of the first brood 

 of the season, now just appearing the offspring 

 of those which last winter hibernated in hollow 

 trees and crevices of stumps. On a February 

 day a year or two ago I turned over a black 

 charred oaken chunk and found one of these 

 butterflies clinging close to the under side, there 



