220 My Neighbor's Wood-Shed 



the bird-world was thankful for the early 

 summer? How little is needed to start an 

 endless train of thought, and what would this 

 world be without its unfailing suggestive- 

 ness ? Fafts are poor things when they lie 

 about us as so many soulless clods giving no 

 hint of whence or whither. 



Here let me add what I wrote a year ago, 

 when lingering alone in the old wood-shed, 

 elaborating a few notes that I jotted down 

 that day and days before when wandering 

 aimlessly about, or, as is more in accordance 

 with winter customs, cuttin* 'cross lots for 

 the dear old shelter. 



Memory and imagination serve me so well, 

 it does not seem possible that forty years have 

 passed since old Miles Overfield fashioned a 

 little willow whistle, and, gathering a group 

 of boys about him, held them spell-bound by 

 the skill with which he executed *' Money 

 Musk," " Irish Washerwoman," and " Na- 

 poleon crossing the Alps," and, as a grand 

 wind-up, that sweet old tune, the " Merry 

 Swiss Boy." I have said " a group of boys." 

 There were seven of us then but two 

 now. Time has destroyed or witnessed the 

 destruction of much that made the world 



