Indian Spring 



the clarinet. This bird is noticeably shyer 

 in winter than at any other season, and will 

 fly long before you can get near him, utter- 

 ing, as he undulates over the woods or fields, 

 the same strident note that first announced 

 his presence. 



After walking about a mile, I came to a 

 warm, southward-facing bank, where the 

 roots of a pine-tree were thrusting up above 

 the brown earth, like withered limbs that 

 had thrown off the bedclothing. Glad of 

 a chance to rest, I sat down on one of the 

 knees of the old tree, and gratefully in- 

 haled the aromatic, resinous odor that filled 

 the air. This pine smell is the most dis- 

 tinctive and appealing of wood odors. It 

 lingers longest in the memory, and is re- 

 vived with the keenest and most affecting 

 pleasure. How strongly the resinous fra- 

 grance pours forth on a day like this, when 

 the sun opens wide the pores of the lusty 

 tree! Roots, trunk, and foliage all exhale 

 the wholesome odor, and it streams away 

 on the air, greeting your quickened sense 

 afar off. Nothing like a whiff of pines to 

 call up out-door memories! It is the most 

 distinctive aroma of the woods, a divine 

 ii 



