THE WOODS. 



Near by was the orchard. The trees were large 

 and had a comfortable look to them, and the varieties 

 were all the good, old-fashioned kinds which no new 

 apples take the place of. We used to purloin the 

 orchard occasionally on our squirrel hunts, and, with 

 a few "roasting ears" from the cornfield and some 

 hunks of bread from the pantry, we would feel like 

 veritable kings of old beside our fire in the woods, 

 munching our bread and apples, and watching the ears 

 of corn smoke in the ashes, with a shy, proud glance 

 now and then at the brace of squirrels lying on the 

 log beside us and our faithful rifles leaning against the 

 nearest tree. Leatherstocking, I know, never had such 

 feelings of serene and absolute self-contentment and 

 enjoyment of life as we at those early breakfasts under 

 the hickories. We had found the thing worth living 

 for. We were rivals of Robin Hood. Why, Daniel 

 Boone himself had hunted and lived not more than a 

 hundred miles away! I wish I could leave it in lan- 

 guage, the wildness I have felt on those fresh mornings, 

 in moist dingles among the waving grass and the beau- 

 tiful swaying trees, while the gun barrel was beaded 

 with dew; or in the late afternoons, when the great 

 trunks were painted with the sunset lights and shadows; 

 or again, when looking for 'coons beneath the stars 

 and under the hunter's midnight moon. 



The old woods — how I have loved it ! The sweet- 

 est memories of life are entwined back there among 

 the grasses and the grapevines and the oaks and beeches. 

 Its beauty and silence and the wild life in it were 

 the unsolved mystery of boyhood, and its deeper study 

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