264 



RECREA TION. 



What field is sweeter to look on than a 

 buckwheat field? Pale green at first, then 

 blossom crowned and bee laden, then 

 browning slowly, with promise of fine pan- 

 cakes. Then the cutting before the grain 

 is too ripe, and the raking into little piles. 

 Even after the harvest is hauled away the 

 great square of red stubble is a cheerful 

 sight, with the sparrows gathering on it or 

 quails hunting for the scattered grains. 



One year Carson harvested for me. He 

 was young, and being in love and deeming 

 himself loved, was merry. He sang when 

 he ground his scythe, he whistled when he 

 whet it, and all day, as he cut his wide 

 swathe through the oats, snatches of song 

 were tossed back to me. Although he pre- 

 ferred to chew tobacco rather than smoke 

 it, and held the affections for a while of his 

 sweetheart with a red and white necktie 

 which he donned on Sundays, he was a 

 splendid worker, and possessed traits gen- 

 erally supposed to belong only to men of 

 gentle birth or breeding. When the fair 

 and cruel enchantress showed preference 

 for another, Carson, with a weary smile on 

 his beardless lip, tramped to town and 

 found work in a saw mill. 



One misty afternoon in October, Bill 

 flung away the book he had been reading 

 and arose from the depths of his chair. 

 The Parsonette and I looked at him with 

 eyes of mild inquiry. 



" Don't be surprised," he said, " I am 

 going out shooting." 



" To shoot what? " said the Parsonette, 

 turning down a corner of a page in " The 

 House of the Wolf." 



" Golden-wings; there are flocks of them 

 on the Davidson place, they make fine wing 

 shooting, and it is too wet to trail through 

 the woods after grouse." 



The Parsonette, whose ambition was to 

 shoot something, snapped at the bait im- 

 mediately. But for some time I demurred, 

 staring out of the window at the chilly 

 drizzle and the mist hung poplar trees, then 

 back to the fire and the half-smoked pipe. 

 The temptation was too much, however, 

 and after finding out we would have pan- 

 cakes for tea, I whistled for the dogs and 

 followed the others out into the fog. We 

 struck across a new clearing, where the 

 stumps of the poplars and the roots of the 

 alders lie bare to the weather, and through 

 the heavy fringe of spruce that covered the 



dividing line between Aldergarth and the 

 Davidson place. The moisture from the 

 branches drenched us as we pushed our way 

 through. As soon as we reached the clear- 

 ing 4 or 5 golden-wings went up from the 

 ground, and away over a second clump of 

 trees. Although these birds look much like 

 large robins they have the true woodpecker 

 flight, seeming to go through the air in a 

 succession of long leaps. 



We spread out a little and started across 

 the spongy sward toward the cover ahead. 

 Here and there in the field grew small 

 maples surrounded by raspberry canes — 

 the outcome of careless husbandry. From 

 these shelters the birds kept flying out, 

 catching us off our guard every time. At 

 last Bill let drive at an old fellow, who was 

 rocketing over the fence, and dropped him. 

 The dogs, who rushed up expecting to find 

 a grouse, were so disgusted they left us and 

 went hunting through the woods on their 

 own hook. 



After a lot of tramping without another 

 shot we found ourselves among the alders 

 and cold springs down on the flat. The 

 rain was beginning in earnest and the Par- 

 sonette spoke of buckwheat pancakes be- 

 tween his flounderings in the mud. Bill 

 and I had dreams of pancakes too, and 

 strawberry jam, and our feet on the hearth 

 afterward. A vision of a blue tobacco jar 

 formed on my mist dimmed glasses. Just 

 as we turned to go home we heard the dogs 

 barking furiously, away back in the woods. 

 Like one man we dashed toward the sound; 

 but no other 2 men could have fallen into so 

 many water holes as each one of us did. I 

 found Toby standing beneath a dripping 

 spruce. In lots of places the boles of the 

 trees were jammed together, and the light 

 was like that of a church. Rom., who had 

 probably turned his attention to a passing 

 hare, was missing; so also were the grouse 

 which should have been sitting around 

 waiting to be shot. Bang — went a gun be- 

 hind me and on my head dropped a drum- 

 mer. He was done for; but with a whirr 

 and dashing of rain drops a whole flock 

 went out of the tree tops. I swore when the 

 Parsonette appeared and picked up his 

 game. 



We took a short cut for the farmhouse 

 after that, and in due time came the pan- 

 cakes, the jam, the tobacco and the open 

 fire. After all it was a pretty decent way 

 of spending a wet afternoon. 



The rain falls on the just and the unjust, 

 but the latter nearly always have the for- 

 mer's umbrella. — Town Topics. 



