298 IN BERKSHIRE FIELDS 



jet-black, wonderfully intelligent eyes, he runs along 

 a few feet inside the wall, then re-emerges from a 

 hole, raises his long neck, and stares at me, his head 

 cocked the least bit to one side. Bobbing in again 

 so quickly you can scarcely detect his motions, he 

 as suddenly reappears, it may be nearer still, and 

 this time sits up on his haunches like a squirrel to 

 observe me better. He is rather small and is prob- 

 ably she, but so beautiful, alert, fearless, and intel- 

 ligent of aspect that it seems hard to believe it 

 capable of the savage cruelty that is its instinctive 

 nature. I have not dared to try to tame it with 

 food, for fear the dog might get it, though I fancy 

 the chances are slight. Its rapidity of motion is 

 almost incredible. 



An afternoon in the wood-lot is never so pleasant 

 as a morning, because the ax has curiously grown 

 heavier (as well as inexplicably duller) , and the un- 

 pleasant but inevitable task has to be faced of trim- 

 ming the slash from the poles cut before luncheon. 

 This is a matter not of strength, but of patience, 

 and it is always more pleasant to be assertive than 

 patient. But as my clock — the creeping shadow of 

 the mountain shoulder above me — warns that the 

 day's task is nearing its end, I always leave till 

 morning any poles that may yet be untrirnmed, and 

 finish the day by a few strong, farewell swings 

 against the stoutest trees within reach. I like to 

 finish with a final free play of every muscle and the 

 brittle crash of a trunk down the slope. I like it 

 because it sends me to my sheepskin coat and pipe in 

 a warm glow, and because the fallen tree is a symbol 

 of the meaning of my task. 



