Liife on a Wisconsin Farm 



the loan of a gun. The alarmed gamekeeper, 

 not liking the fiddler's looks and voice, anx- 

 iously inquired what he was going to do with 

 it. "Surely," said he, "you're no gan to shoot 

 yoursel." "No-o," with characteristic candor 

 replied the penitent fiddler, "I dinna think that 

 I'll juist exactly kill mysel, but I'm gaun to 

 tak a dander doon the bum (brook) wi' the 

 gun and gie mysel a deevil o' a fleg (fright)." 



One calm summer evening a red-headed 

 woodpecker was drowned in our lake. The 

 accident happened at the south end, opposite 

 our memorable swimming-hole, a few rods from 

 the place where I came so near being drowned 

 years before. I had returned to the old home 

 during a summer vacation of the State Uni- 

 versity, and, having made a beginning in bot- 

 any, I was, of course, full of enthusiasm and ran 

 eagerly to my beloved pogonia, calopogon, and 

 cypripedium gardens, osmunda ferneries, and 

 the lake lilies and pitcher-plants. A little before 

 sundown the day-breeze died away, and the 

 lake, reflecting the wooded hills like a mirror, 

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