132 A JUNE ROUND OF CALLS. 



its original destiny, swallowed it himself, and 

 wiped his beak with an air that said: "There 

 now! What can you make out of that?" 



Ashamed to have deprived the little sitter of 

 her treat, we folded our stools and resumed our 

 march. 



How shall one put into words the delights of 

 the woods in June without "dropping into poe- 

 try?" Does not our own native poet say: 



" Who speeds to the woodland walks ? 

 To birds and trees who talks ? 

 Csesar of his leafy Rome, 

 There the poet is at home." 



But if one is not a poet, must he then suffer 

 and enjoy in silence? When he puts aside the 

 leafy portiere and enters the cool green paradise 

 of the trees, must he be dumb ? Slowly, almost 

 solemnly, we walked up the beautiful road with 

 its carpet of dead leaves. It was as silent of 

 man's ways as if he were not within a thousand 

 miles, and we had all the enjoyment of the deep 

 forest, with the comforting assurance that five 

 minutes' walk would bring us to people. 



A small family in dark slate-color and white, 

 with a curious taste for the antique cave-dwell- 

 ing, was next on our list. The home was an ex- 

 cavation in the soft earth, held together by the 

 roots of an overturned tree, and everything was 

 quiet when we arrived the two well -grown in* 



