26 WINTER SUNSHINE. 



gcound " ivory ; " in Virginia, they call woodchucks 

 " moonacks." 



On entering Pumpkintown a cluster of five or 

 six small, whitewashed block-houses, toeing squarely 

 on the highway the only inhabitant we saw was a 

 small boy, who was as frank and simple as if he had 

 lived on pumpkins and marrow-squashes all his days. 



Half a mile farther on, we turned to the right into 

 a characteristic Southern road a way entirely un- 

 kempt, and wandering free as the wind ; now fading 

 out into a broad field ; now contracting into a narrow 

 track between hedges ; anon roaming with delight- 

 ful abandon through swamps and woods, asking no 

 leave and keeping no bounds. About two o'clock 

 we stopped in an opening in a pine wood, and ate 

 our lunch. We had the good fortune to hit upon a 

 charming place. A wood-chopper had been there, 

 and let in the sunlight full and strong ; and the white 

 chips, the newly-piled wood, and the mounds of green 

 boughs, were welcome features, and helped also to 

 keep off the wind that would creep through under 

 the pines. The ground was soft and dry, with a car- 

 pet an inch thick of pine-needles, and with a fire, less 

 for warmth than to make the picture complete, we 

 ate our bread and beans with the keenest satisfaction, 

 xnd with a relish that only the open air can give. 



A fire, of course an encampment in the woods 

 at this season without a fire would be like leaving 

 Hamlet out of the play. A smoke is your standard, 

 your flag ; it defines and locates your camp at once 



