•ffn tbe Moo&s wftb tbe Bow 



hickory, and pine, through which blue 

 patches of sky gleamed brilliantly. Going 

 down-hill proved tiring, however, and I 

 was glad to rest on an old log near the 

 verge of a cliff, which dropped almost ver- 

 tically fifty or more feet, so that I could 

 look with level gaze into tree-tops of im- 

 mense size. Far below I saw my path 

 sinking like an irregular stairway along 

 the steep. It was a good place for loung- 

 ing — just breezy enough to soothe, and 

 yet not chill, a place given over to such 

 solitude as the poets rhapsodize about. 

 I hung one leg over the log, and felt too 

 comfortable to be bothered with unbra- 

 cing my bow. In this attitude I was sitting 

 when a hoarse voice startled me, not with 

 fear or surprise, but with a thrill of joy. 

 It was a long-lost voice, the croak of a 

 raven, and in a moment the great black 

 flash, if I may so call it, shot across a rift, 

 with a fine swish of feathers shimmering 

 blue-green over their intense inky dark- 

 ness. A raven, and it lit only forty yards 

 away, a trifle above the level of my eyes, 

 on a pine bough close to the tree's bole. 

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