In Northern Woods. 



It was one of the last days in the beautiful month of Oc- 

 tober. The oaks and maples were blazing forth in their 

 autumnal colors, while the elms along the creek bank were 

 sadly giving up their yellow leaves to Mother Earth. Sharp 

 frosts had killed the tender vegetation and browned the up- 

 land fields; but here and there in sheltered spots, along the 

 sunny banks of the stream, the grass was still green, as if try- 

 ing to persuade the passer-by that another summer had come. 

 But alas ! the falling leaves, the tints of the foliage, the fading 

 golden-rod and blighted vegetation told too well the tale that 

 summer's days were o'er and that the twilight season of the 

 year had come. 



I had started out for a tramp down-creek with my 20-bore 

 on my shoulder and my fishing tackle in my pocket. Striking 

 across the low meadowland that separated my home from the 

 timber, I came out on the banks of the creek and followed its 

 winding course to the southward. It was a quiet, lazy day- 

 one of those dreamy fall days when all the world seems to be at 

 a stand-still, halting between summer and winter. The spirit 

 of the day seemed to catch me and I strolled listlessly along, 

 following every winding turn of the stream, lost in dreamy 

 meditation. 



I had been spending a month's vacation at my old home 

 and every afternoon found me fishing the waters of Lime Creek 

 or hunting pheasants and squirrels in the woods along its 

 shores. I had spent so much time at these sports that I knew 

 the haunt of every wary denizen of wood and water for miles 

 around. Winter would soon be with us again and spread her 

 mantle of white over these brown fields and meadows. Tomor- 

 row I must leave for my Nebraska home and another year must 

 roll around with its humdrum life and hard work before I could 

 again visit this charming spot and enjoy the health-giving 

 pleasures of gun and rod. 



[79] 



