256 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



And whenever any of these chance to wander far 

 a-field, they well know it is to a city of refuge to which 

 they speed when hurrying to the little forest that hedges 

 an old worm-fence. 



The pretty tree-toad, quaint batrachian philosopher, is 

 not loath to squat about the lichen patches of the older 

 rails, and finds a safe home in the hollows of such as are 

 slowly decaying and hold the chance-caught rain-drops 

 in their mossy nooks. 



Of fish as dwellers about fences I can say but little ; 

 yet one worm-fence in a distant meadow will ever re- 

 main memorable, from the fact that a herring dropped 

 by a fish -hawk safely lodged thereon, and was carried 

 home in triumph by me, years before I reached my 

 teens. Would that subsequent days a -fishing had 

 proved half so happy ! 



Of insect and arachnian life there is literally no end. 

 Flies, beetles, and wingless crawling life ; spiders, both 

 great and small, of sombre tints and the most brilliant 

 hues. 



And the botany ! There is no need to catalogue the 

 plants actually gathered from the angles of the fence. 

 Recall the smilax, blackberry, ivy, wild-grape, and Vir- 

 ginia creeper, for the little thickets that delight the 

 thrush and make glad the heart of the to-whee bunting ; 

 recall the cedars that tower above these sinuous growths, 

 and, too, the palm-like foliage of the sapling sumacs. 

 Where else so completely at home is that embodiment 

 of midsummer vivacity, the indigo-bird ? The chinkapin 

 bushes wherein jays gather — what more suggestive pict- 

 ure does a fanning country offer ? 



