28 ILLINOTS -AU-DU-3.0.N, -B UL De 
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A Fencerow Dies 
by BILL STOKES 
A fencerow died last week on a farm between Madison and Janesville. 
A farmer and his helper were slashing it to death with axes when I 
drove by . | 
The farmer’s dog romped as the wood chips flew and brush fell. 
The dog was a black Labrador, a hunting dog if there ever was one, and 
the inconsistency of the scene was almost brutal. 
. The fencerow died, and it took with it into oblivion a chunk of | 
nature’s °s irreplaceable hide. 
It took the home of the lark and the quail and the countless smaller 
birds: (0 
It took the grasses and twigs that shelter the rabbit clutches, and it | 
took a highway of wild travel from the fox and the skunk and all of the 
other creatures. 
There will be few interesting scents for the black Lab to explore 
during the year as it romps beside the roaring farm machines. 
The farmer, of course, will not miss the scents, but maybe he will 
muss the sights and the sounds. Certainly a man with a hunting dog must 
derive pleasure from the sight of a pheasant rattling out of the fencerow 
when the tractor comes too close. Certainly he must hesitate a minute 
when the early morning call of the quail floats to him. | 
Oh, of course he can go to the public hunting grounds for his neigh- 
boring with nature. F 
He can take the black Lab and rub elbows with the rest of us. | 
Chances are, he won’t like it though. He’ll curse the crowds and com-_ 
petition, and it probably will not occur to him that he chopped up his — 
own solution to the problem when he killed the fencerow. 
Or maybe he’ll hunt on his own farm and blame the Conservation 
Department or the fox for the lack of game. 
The fencerow died, and though all of us may mourn it, the traged q 
was greatest for the farmer. 
