442 



RECREATION 



to the show. The domestic fowls strag- 

 gle out ; the hens for a dust bath, the 

 geese and ducks in a procession to the 

 nearest mud puddle, and the turkeys 

 "on a hike for hoppers." A litter of 

 cunning little pigs sally forth from 

 the barn-yard only to scuttle back at 

 the approach of the traveler, and a 

 friendly yearling 'colt looks over the 

 fence with a sigh for the highway of 

 which one day he will tire. The honest 

 farm dog adds his mite to the adven- 

 ture of the road. Just enough hazard 

 to break the monotony and give a zest 

 to things. The chauffeur often has to 

 persuade a ruminating cow to arise and 

 draw the rope with which she is tied 

 out of the road that she may not cause 

 a spill. 



The wood road is the one to strike 

 for coolness and quiet. The pink and 

 yellow moccasin flowers nod from be- 

 hind a decayed log in place of the lu- 

 pine of the open highway, or the ghostly 

 Indian pipe pushes the dead leaves aside 

 with its pale pink and white blossoms. 

 In place of the vesper sparrow of the 

 open road the oven bird runs along the 

 road before the traveler and finally flits 

 into the shade. The silvery note of the 

 Wilson's thrush comes tinkling through 

 the woods in rhythmic cadence. Even 

 the bell of the cow as she browses 

 through the wood, the distant cock 

 crow and the shout of a plowman are 

 not discordant sounds, since they em- 

 phasize the separation from the out- 

 side world. 



When you come out upon the open 

 highway again, it seems like coming 

 again' into man's domain. All is busi- 

 ness ; the chauffeur here instinctively 

 puts on more power. A mowing ma- 

 chine rattles in a nearby field, the cock's 

 crow is heard instead of the note of the 

 wood thrush, a horn calls to a prosaic 

 dinner. These sounds, though hardly 

 noticeable before entering the wood, 

 strike on the ear, on coming out, for 

 their sharp contrast with the previous 

 stillness. 



Beyond the nearby details of the road 

 side — the flower and bird and wild 

 thing, the sunshine and shade, the de- 

 light of the wood, is still the outlook. 

 Never is this the same. Pass over a 



road twice in the same day and you 

 may discover some new phase of the 

 prospect. At the brow of every hill 

 there is a new view to be had. At the 

 crest you turn, and perhaps the shadow 

 of a cloud is passing over the landscape. 

 The distance is blue in shadow, or it is 

 radiant with light ; a distant stream 

 now flashes, now fades ; a white farn: 

 house subdued by shadow now comes 

 out brightly in the sun, and so the sun- 

 shine and the shadow chase each othe: 

 across the landscape. 

 All is change ; the hours and the sea- 

 it about. The flickering 



sons 



bring 



patches of light across the road at mid- 

 day are different from the long shadows 

 of late afternoon. The scarlet and 

 .gold of the autumn is not like the map 

 of the winter landscape laid out in 

 blue, brown and white. Twilight, with 

 its mystery, makes a new road. The 

 creek, where the phoebe bird flew from 

 its nest under the old stone bridge, and 

 the kingfisher rattled across the hot 

 meadow, is not the soft black stream 

 with reflections of the willows in it and 

 the myriad firefly lamps in the rushes. 



After a summer shower, when the 

 traveler has come out from the shelter 

 of a horse shed or a hospitable porch, 

 how deliriously cool the air, how clean 

 and sweet the newly washed face of 

 nature. The pools of water in the 

 wagon tracks reflect the blue sky. In 

 them the swallows dip their wings as 

 they fly low across the road ; all the 

 birds have renewed their lately hushed 

 songs. 



Nature is never dull, and the high- 

 way — prosaic man's approach to nature 

 — is always interesting. Even in win- 

 ter the road repays ; when the ground is 

 frozen or covered with packed snow 

 new vistas are opened. A summer ac- 

 quaintance is quite new and refresh- 

 ing in the winter. Viewed anatomi- 

 cally, as it were,, a tree has more indi- 

 viduality in winter when crusted with 

 snow than when clothed in leaves. The 

 crusted snow smoothly polished by 

 wind and sun reflects the light, daz- 

 zling the eyes. The wide field is a 

 billowy sea over which a flock of snow 

 buntings are skimming in place of sea 

 swallows. The lighter snow scurries 



