En Klapjagt Paa Danske Fjelde. 173 



meerschaum that I have smoked by my 

 campfire in the Adirondack forest, while 

 the birch log sizzled and snapped, and fit- 

 ful gleams of red flame lighted up the 

 form of the strong antlered buck which 

 was drawn up on the moss by my side. 



The same fond pipe that I have smoked 

 in the evening light while I sat with Sam 

 on the threshold of a Pennsylvania farm- 

 house, and the October breeze whirled 

 the dead leaves about our day's load of 

 ruffed grouse, woodcock, and quail, and 

 toyed with the wavy locks of our tired 

 and sleepy setters. 



The same beloved meerschaum that I 

 have smoked on a Connecticut June 

 noontime in a sunny, ferny corner of the 

 rail fence among the white birches, where 

 the fresh growing grass on the bank 

 stirred shadows into the clear waters of 

 Poohtatook Brook with every zephyr, and 

 the brown thrush in the willow-top asked 

 the buttercup-dancing, air-prancing, soul- 

 entrancing bobolink to call me away from 

 my reverie. 



The same quieting pipe that I have 



