THROUGH LIBRARY WINDOWS 217 



here and served and taken on its weather col- 

 oring, a gray satin-like tinge ; in places covered 

 with mosses and lichens, no two rails alike, split 

 irregularly but related and built in together. 

 The rail fence is wholly American; no other 

 country has them, it is the relic of a lavish era 

 of unlimited forestry. I wonder who invented 

 it? Who was the first rail-splitter? What a fence 

 for weeds and bushes and vines and shrubbery. 

 Its corners have been dumping grounds of farm- 

 ing odds and ends for a generation but what a 

 paradise for squirrels and chipmunks and birds 

 and bees. The plow cannot reach these stored 

 corners, the mower dreads them and keeps 

 aloof. Berry boys and girls know these choice 

 spots and how to fill their pails. I sat on the 

 old fence and thought back into the past. I 

 looked on the stones and rubbish and bushes 

 and trees, heard bird singings and bee hum- 

 mings and squirrel scoldings, and what a fitting 

 picture for poet and painter 1 I drew forth my 

 lunch and began to distribute to the birds and 

 squirrels and chipmunks and bees and butterflies 

 and caterpillars and myself — all ate and were 

 filled. How quickly I made friends with them 

 all, the squirrels ceased scolding me, the birds 

 no longer eyed me suspiciously but came closer 

 and coaxed and coaxed for more. One little 



