156 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



better acquainted with my oak-tree genii. Then 

 supper, a plunge into the stream to cool my 

 complaining body, an hour in silent communion 

 with the stars and the first day in my new home 

 was at an end. 



Thursday, July 6. Up at 4:10. The wood 

 thrush was singing for me a matin song delight- 

 ful in its melody. Bucket and rifle in hand, 

 like the pioneer of old, I sauntered to my spring. 

 Its waters this morn are clear as crystal, for 

 waiting, patient waiting, has given time for 

 every drop of sediment to settle. Its basin is 

 dug in stiff blue mud. The water is cool and 

 pure, but it is no such spring as that of my 

 June-time camping place, for carved out of 

 rock, not mud, was the basin of that. 



As usual ants galore are with me here, ants 

 everywhere, both male ants and female ants. 

 A basket is suspended to the ridge-pole of the 

 tent and most of the provisions placed therein. 

 Thus only do I hope to circumvent the cunning 

 little rascals. 



After the morning duties of camp life are 

 completed, with rifle and note-book I sally forth, 

 seeking both game for my pot and game for 

 thought. Beyond my lawn to the south I find 

 myself on a steep grassy slope, clear of under- 

 brush and bearing many young walnut trees 



