THROUGH LIBRARY WINDOWS 221 



When out in the fields seeing and sniffing he 

 would throw himself down on the grass and roll 

 over and over fairly crazy with joy. All that 

 was often mine when alone afield. I have 

 shouted and sung and cried and laughed in the 

 excess of joy because everything was so beauti- 

 ful and made me so happy. It does still, though 

 in a more subdued way, yet the old thrill is not 

 altogether wanting. There is a joy in the same 

 old fields and paths that I have gone over a 

 score of times, yonder is the same clump of 

 pines, stately and restful, same ledge of rocks 

 with its oozing of clearest coolest water, the 

 same brook still running on babbling its cheery 

 music, same ferns so fresh and inviting, same 

 wild flowers, I could find them in the dark or 

 trace them by their distinct fragrances ; I knew 

 where was the best trailing Arbutus and Spring 

 Beauty and where the finest wintergreens ; yes, I 

 knew it all, but ever had a peculiar joy in revis- 

 iting old spots and retouching old flowers and 

 refeeling the old-time delights. 



My field day was richly diversified; one of 

 the events was a brush fire. I have collected 

 many such brush and rubbish heaps and burned 

 them, but this fire I had nothing to do with but 

 watch and enjoy. There was a gathered heap 

 of brush and stumps, withered grass and leaves 



