92 



My Wood. 



midst of life here, too, we are in death, or, at any 

 rate, amidst the means of it. Often have I lain in 

 one of these huts, later in the season, stretched com- 

 fortably on a soft carpet of dried moss, and leaves and 

 grass, and — far from murderous thoughts intent — have 

 watched, unseen, the ordinary goings-on of life around 

 me in this sylvan paradise. 



One deprivation this kind of pleasant ordeal has 

 however, it is that no tobacco must be indulged in. 



WOODED SCENE WITH HUT. 



You light your pipe, and instantly the charm is gone. 

 These wild creatures are not onty quick but suspicious 

 — the slightest fading curl of smoke, the least strange 

 scent on the air, and you are left to regret the lack of 

 good company. Even in a walk through a wood, or 

 by a hedgerow, the pipe in your mouth is an additional 

 warning which the wild things not only note, but are 

 smart to telegraph onwards before you. " No tobacco 

 smoking allowed " must be the motto. 



So cool, so shaded is the hut, with such a sense of 



