gleeful as the rest of the feathered songsters, and I had 

 nearly forgotten to mention the leader of the choir, the 

 bobolink. I heard him singing his rollicking, laughing 

 song with such gusto I thought he would split his mar- 

 velous little throat. 



But while the birds sang, and the bees worked, and 

 the trout leaped swiftly for the passing fly ; while nature 

 seemed glad and laughing at her own handiwork, yet 

 sorrow was in the land. As my friends and I sat around 

 the grateful log fire in the clul) room, our talk was of the 

 tragic death of young Walter Clark, son of \Squire Clark 

 (an old and respected magistrate of this count}-), and of 

 the boy's funeral, which had just been held during the 

 afternoon. The cause of his death was a fight to the 

 finish between the boy and a big and vicious rattlesnake. 

 The snake won and the boy won, for each killed the 

 other. " 'Twas a duel to the drath," and the story of the 

 fight had to be told b_y conjecture, for there was no eye- 

 witness. The fight was in the seclusion of the woods, 

 and one of the combatants was dead and the other uncon- 

 scious when found. Walter Clark was a boy of eleven 

 summers, sturdy and strong of his age, but a fever had 

 left him, as a reminder of its virulence, an impaired mind 

 and imperfect speech. He had one marked trait, a strong 

 antipathy to snakes and hornets, and would gladly fight 

 either when opportunity offered. On Friday last his 

 father, the 'Squire, was working in the field and Walter 

 was helping him, barelegged, with but shirt and pants on. 

 The boy heard the ringing of a cow-bell, and said to his 

 father, "Cow! cow!" His father said, "Yes, I hear the 

 bell," and went on with his work. The boy started down 



