How Animals Talk 



"Hold on, old sport! Come back; it's your 

 tree," I called after him, feeling as if I had stolen 

 a child's umbrella ; but he paid no attention. 



Thinking he would not go far, and knowing he 

 could hear or smell nothing in that rush of rain 

 and crashing of thunder, I crept slowly after him. 

 There he was, hunched up in the lee of a big hem- 

 lock, ears drooping, legs streaming, and little spurts 

 of mist popping up from his pelted hide. Though 

 woebegone enough, he had not forgotten caution; 

 oh no ! trust an old buck for that in any weather. 

 His tail was to the tree, his head turned warily 

 to the trail over which he had come. And there I 

 left him, wishing as I turned back that he would 

 let me stand under his hemlock, or else come and 

 share my fir, just for a little company. 



Near the lower end of my pond was still another 

 tree which I must revisit ; yes, surely, not only for 

 its happy memories, but also in anticipation of 

 some merry surprise, of which it seemed to have 

 endless store. It stood on a bank overlooking a 

 sunny dell in the woods, a wonderfully pleasant 

 place where no wind entered, where the air was 

 always fragrant, and a runlet of cool water sang 

 a little tune to itself all day long. Its gnarled 

 trunk was scarcely more than a shell, which 

 boomed like a drum when a woodpecker sounded 

 it; and above were hollow limbs with knot-hole 



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