54 IN BERKSHIRE FIELDS 



nel on a patriarch pine. In the misty mornings of 

 summer when the sun has not yet rolled up the 

 curtains of cloud from the mountains we hear his 

 voice far off in the woods, rousing us from slumber, 

 and when autumn has come and our sugar-groves 

 are a glory of crimson he is still there, his distant 

 call floating down sweetly from the upland woods 

 and intensifying in some strange way the height of 

 the peaks beyond. He calls over the peaceful 

 meadows of Middlesex, where Thoreau wandered; 

 he calls from the wilderness of the White Hills, from 

 the Long Island shore, from the rapids of Niagara, 

 from the corn-fields of the West. The corn itself 

 is not more American than he, no more closely woven 

 into the texture of our memories, into our national 

 consciousness. Probably we could not exterminate 

 him if we would. But, after all, why should we? 



