is one that has plenty for me. Two or 

 three of the everpresent rocks hurled up 

 among the translucent spheres bring 

 down a grateful shower, soft-hitting, 

 sweet smelling. The ecstacy of the first 

 attack over, I pick up a generous hand- 

 ful of the fruit and seat myself on a pro- 

 jecting ledge of sandstone to enjoy my 

 treasures at leisure. 



Fastidious epicures of a certain school 

 hold this mellow honeyed fruit in con- 

 tempt, asserting that it is too sweet for 

 persons of refined tastes, etc. Plebeian, 

 no doubt it is, prime favorite of the 

 'possum and the pickanniny, but must 

 we eschew it because it is common or 

 because it is popular with marsupial or 

 African? If we acknowledge any such 

 precedent in what way can we establish 

 the thorough-going aristocracy of our 

 taste for chicken and watermelon, simi- 

 larly beloved? 



The debate was running strong in 

 favor of the Diospyrus when an incident 

 occurred that changed entirely the cur- 

 rent of my thoughts, a flock of wax- 

 wings came suddenly upon the scene and 

 settled in the top of my tree. The way 

 they tackle the persimmons would make 

 a dyspeptic green from envy; my own 

 appetite is satisfied and I don't care ; I 

 can lean back upon the hillside and 

 watch the onslaught. Dapper little fel- 

 lows they are with coats of gray and 

 brown so harmoniously combined that 

 one wishes milliners and dressmakers 

 would sometimes take a lesson from Na- 

 ture in color combinations. How the 

 unthinkable berries and impossible roses 

 would disappear from our streets and 

 homes ! They flutter in and out a mo- 

 ment, then with a beady chirrup they 

 are gone over the hill ; perhaps their 

 next stopping place for lunch will be 

 among the red cedars on the other side 

 of the Cumberlands. 



November twenty-first found me 

 again headed for the little valley. The 

 previous night had been quite cold ; ice 

 had formed clear across the stream ex- 

 cept in a few places where the current 

 was very swift. Birds, however, are 

 more numerous than a week ago ; 

 juncos arc plentiful in the weeds of the 

 creek bed, the eye can scarcely rest any- 

 where without falling: on drab and 



white. The day is bright and sunshiny, 

 one song sparrow warms up enough to 

 sing us a few strains, a sample of what 

 he can do or rather hint of what he 

 might do if he really tried. Any music 

 at this season of the year is very accept- 

 able if it does lack some essential ele- 

 ment. I don't know what term a musi- 

 cian would use, but I know that the real 

 lack in the music now is motive; there 

 can be no results without a cause, no 

 accomplishment without a motive; a 

 mate and a nest in the haw tree would 

 make all the difference in the world with 

 his music. 



The song sparrow is not the only rep- 

 resentative of his tribe out this morning ; 

 his brother of the fields is here skirmish- 

 ing about the worm fence, and a flock of 

 goldfinches in their winter garb fly over 

 my head uttering their plaintive "May- 

 be" to make sure I would recognize 

 them, I suppose. They don't need to do 

 that, the airy curved flight is all the evi- 

 dence one needs. A pair of cheewinks 

 are making the leaves fly in a thicket of 

 young birches ; while I am watching 

 them a cardinal jumps out of the mys- 

 terious recesses of the tangle and flies 

 away up the valley ; before long I hear 

 him or his brother whistling merrily ; 

 winter suits him well enough. 



Seventeen species in all for one fore- 

 noon's jaunt, a fair record for this sea- 

 son of the year. Besides those I have 

 named I saw the Carolina wren, crow, 

 chickadee, tufted titmouse, downy 

 woodpecker, white-breasted nuthatch, 

 bluebird, red-breasted woodpecker, 

 robin, horned lark, and last but not by 

 any means least, the red-breasted nut- 

 hatch. This is the first time I have ever 

 seen this bird; there is no mistaking 

 nuthatch motions for those of any other 

 genus ; they are strictly sui generis. His 

 name is almost description enough to 

 any one who is familiar with his white- 

 breasted brother. 



November 28. There is snow on the 

 ground to-day, not enough to interfere 

 with walking but plenty to show every 

 mouse, bird or squirrel track. The weed 

 patches that have been so full of busy 

 visitors on the occasion of my last two 

 visits arc nearly deserted; a lone junco 

 flics out ami away at my approach. 



