in it, a hint of gathering winter storms. Out in the 

 bare, brown fields a few corn-shocks stand, and perhaps 

 now and then a golden pumpkin; and already the crows 

 and the pheasants have discovered this food supply. 

 The deep woods are very still. The insect under-song 

 of Summer has died in the grass, the bird songs in the 

 trees. Only the wiry little cheeps of the chickadees are 

 heard in the woods, or now and then the distant blows 

 of a woodpecker or the startled uprush and booming 

 flight of a partridge. The woodchucks have dug them- 

 selves in for the Winter. The squirrels have already 

 hoarded their nuts, though occasionally you will see one 

 sitting on a pine stump shredding a cone. Occasionally, 

 too, you will see ahead a strange glint of light and come 

 upon a maple tree so well protected that it has not yet 

 lost its golden foliage. On a leaden November day it 

 seems for all the world like a burst of sunshine down 

 the forest aisle. Perhaps, far off, the crack of a hunter's 

 gun will wake the echoes. There may be ice on the lip 

 of the spring under the fern bank, and the sweet water is 

 very cold. As you come back into the fields again, you 

 hear the shouts of the football players, playing the an- 

 nual Thanksgiving game, the last of the season. Smoke 

 is ascending from all the chimneys, and your nostrils 

 scent food. Could Thanksgiving come at any time but 

 this gray, frosty November season, in this hush of 

 Nature before the winter storms? We who were born 

 in the country, at any rate, would not have it otherwise. 



