THE CURLEW CALL 163 
of harmless affectation being concluded, I dived 
into the barn. I did not miss my guess. It was 
an old, old barn built wholly of oak boards, beams, 
rafters, mow floors—a thing which in our day 
had been a fortune of gold. In this barn was 
room enough for a young windstorm to have 
tired itself out in. Horses munched their hay. 
The wind strayed in and strayed out like wan- 
dering birds intent on nothing much. The sun 
was trying to smoke hot to give delayed wheat 
and corn a boost for catching up. I fooled around 
in the barn a while. I smelled of the hay in the 
ancient mow. I pried about in true neighborly 
fashion and only honest intent. I wanted to 
find eggs hidden in out-of-the-way corners. But 
the hens were not egging: they were singing 
about their intended activities, that Lord’s Day. 
While I dote on eggs I prefer a hen’s song. It 
is so blithe, so breezy and confirmatory of inten- 
tion and proof absolute of the happiness of the 
hen’s heart, that I never miss that happy nature 
song if I get a half chance to hear it. 
Pulling an oak peg and softly opening an oak 
door, I am admitted to a green barnyard lot 
across which went a path of immediate direct- 
ness. No sauntering pathway made by the 
lingering feet of cattle coming from pasture at 
the sunset, but a hurry-up path to get to pasture 
where breakfast was waiting for them. At the 
end of this path was a lane, one side hedge-grown 
and the other side a fence old but not senile, 
