I 20 Ways of Wood Folk. 



bushes on the left. There he was, looking, listening. 

 Another call, and he came running toward me. 

 Others appeared from every direction, and soon a 

 score of quail were running about, just inside the 

 screen, with soft gurglings like a hidden brook, doubly 

 delightful to an ear that had longed to hear them. 



City, gardens, beasts, strangers, — all vanished in an 

 instant. I was a boy in the fields again. The rough 

 New England hillside grew tender and beautiful in 

 sunset light; the hollows were rich in autumn glory. 

 The pasture brook sang on its way to the river ; a 

 robin called from a crimson maple; and all around 

 was the dear low, thrilling whistle, and the patter of 

 welcome feet on leaves, as Bob White came running 

 again to meet his countryman. 



