310 DAYS OUT Of DOORS. 



Many a curious adventure have I had, and, too, some 

 narrow escapes. Once, from the brow of a steep slope, I 

 attempted to dislodge a cedar stump. Long I tugged at 

 it and made slow but, as I thought, sure progress. Sud- 

 denly it gave way, and with a mixed but otherwise inde- 

 scribable sensation I rolled with it to the ditch below. 

 The stump won the race, and I collected my senses while 

 sitting upon it. Bruised as I was, I shouldered it, and 

 that night nursed myself by the genial warmth it gave, 

 as the substantial back-log of my open fire. Next to the 

 gathering of a night's supply of wood when in camp, for 

 solid satisfaction, is chunk-hunting ; and I have no pa- 

 tience with a heartless critic at my elbow who suggests 

 that the pastime illustrates a peculiar phase of human 

 nature. " If," she says, " the chunk-hunter is asked to 

 carry twenty pounds to a neighbor's house, he is helpless 

 at once ; but forty pounds have been carried twice as far, 

 and no hint of fatigue escaped the hunter as he marched 

 in triumph to the fire-place." It is prudent not to re- 



Pty- 



It was on the eve of a storm when I gathered the 

 chunk now upon the andirons a half of a persimmon 

 stump. It is garnished with windfalls from the oaks and 

 beeches, and all goes well. This bit of a persimmon tree 

 has a history, too ; as I dragged it from the mat of leaves 

 and sand that had been accumulating for several years, I 

 unearthed a colony of mole-crickets. Perhaps the associ- 

 ation was accidental, but there were certainly a hundred of 

 them, huddled in a little space. They did not stridulate 

 when disturbed, and scarcely squirmed, but all appeared 

 to be alive. These are among the creatures, I have 

 learned, that fill the air at night with an unceasing dis- 

 syllabic thrill, from early in August until after frost. I 

 find them credited with singing in spring and early sum- 

 mer, a statement that does not hold good of the species 



