The Path to Joe's Pond 



rotting "corduroy," deeply rutted by the 

 groaning wheels of the lumber wagons, and 

 rolling and uneven as a path at sea. On the 

 drier ridges we find the little round hollows 

 where the dust-loving partridges have wal- 

 lowed in the soil, leaving a feather here and 

 there, or the etching of a spread wing to 

 mark some sudden flight. And once in a 

 while we hear a grouse boom away into the 

 deep woods, so far ahead that we can not 

 get even a gray glimpse of him. How shy 

 these game-birds are getting, nowadays! 

 Why, when we were boys, they would walk 

 across the path like chickens in front of us, 

 and then flop up into a neighboring tree, 

 to look down at us and ask with their beady 

 eyes, "Boys, where 's your pole? Why 

 do n't you get one and knock us off ?" The 

 breechloader and the stealthy setter have 

 been at work in these woods since the old 

 days, and the birds have slowly learned wis- 

 dom. Now their education seems about 

 complete, and it will take a crafty sports- 

 man indeed to get within shooting distance 

 of them. 



Deeper and deeper into the woods plunges 

 the old logging road. Now we have passed 

 147 



