Windy Bush. i n 



nothing; and when at last the wordy interview 

 was over, and I had sought the shelter of my 

 tent, there was many a grain of good wheat to be 

 sifted from his abundant chaff. 



Morning broke beautifully over the ringing 

 woods, and as the birds discovered us we were 

 greeted not as new-comers, but as old friends. 

 Whether thrush or grosbeak, lark or robin 

 sounded the louder or the sweeter welcome, it 

 matters not; but let the future wanderer rest 

 assured bird-music is best heard when we are 

 but half awake. Then its spirit only is sifted 

 into our senses: the pure wine without a trace 

 of lees. 



Where nothing comes amiss, be it botany or 

 history, a matter of birds and beasts, or the find- 

 ing of a flint arrow, it is safe to start off in any 

 direction; and the initial tramp was towards the 

 quaint old house, of which we had heard much. 

 It was but a little two-story stone dwelling, 

 framed of huge oak logs, and the interspaces filled 

 with broken stone and held by mortar as white as 

 the driven snow. At the chimney or fireplace end 

 the masonry was solid. All was weed-grown and 



