The Bay of the Band 
with it a pair of: field glasses. I even combine the 
care of my pig and the study of the phoebes that share 
his pen. Occasionally I drop everything and hunt for 
a nest, as if life depended upon my finding it. But life 
does n’t, the more’s the pity, for me. Life depends 
on the finding of things that are very different from 
birds’ nests, things that require a deal of hunting 
the whole year around. Yet I take the time to hunt 
birds’ nests, too, for life is more than meat (I raise 
a good many vegetables), and, after all, my life does 
depend, in no small measure, upon my finding a few 
birds’ nests in June. 
I remember a June when I tried to get life out of 
a grocery store, and the sickness of it comes over 
me even yet at times. I sold kerosene oil, brown 
sugar, coffee, salt mackerel, and plug tobacco. I 
breathed the mingled breath of kerosene oil, brown 
sugar, coffee, salt mackerel, and plug tobacco, — the 
odor of mere money, — when I knew the fox grapes 
were in blossom, the magnolias and the azaleas; 
when I knew the fields were green and the birds 
were in song! I have longed for many things, but 
never as I longed that June for the farm, for the long, 
long day, yes, and for the long, long row. It was 
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