Hn tbe Ximoobs witb tbe Bow 



by wheeling around overhead, letting fall 

 upon me a bickering shower of keen notes. 

 When it lit upon a tall dead tree, I shot at 

 it from behind a clump of pussy-willows. 

 The sound of my bow, although very 

 slight, startled it, and it came near flying 

 in the way of an arrow far out of line. 

 Every once in a while a bird actually thus 

 assists a poor shot, and bags itself, so to 

 say. I followed the little hawk from tree 

 to tree, shooting at hopelessly long range, 

 only to see the arrows fly, and to hear the 

 long sighing note of the feathers swiftly 

 diminish in the distance. It was leisurely 

 exercise, suited to the cool yet sunny and 

 dreamy weather. 



I walked across some freshly plowed 

 ground, where the young maize was out, 

 twi-leaved and emerald-bright, in clusters 

 of from two to five plants, in hills about 

 three and a half feet apart. The tilth was 

 fine, my boots sinking into it ankle-deep. 

 Here I saw my first bluebirds of the sea- 

 son fluttering from stump to stump — the 

 field had been recently cleared of a forest 

 — and blowing their tender flute-phrases. 

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