WOODLAND PATHS WILD PASTURES WOOD WANDERINGS WILDWOOD WAYS
12mo. Ornamental cloth, gilt top, each volume $1.20 _net_, postage 8 cents
The four volumes together constitute “The New England Year,” dealing, in the order given, with the four seasons. The set, boxed, $4.80; _carriage extra_. Sold separately.
SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS BOSTON
[Illustration: You may see a slender doe pirouette like a ballet-dancing wood nymph
BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS
BY SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY (INCORPORATED)
The author wishes to express his thanks to the “Boston Transcript” for permission to reprint in this volume matter which was originally contributed to its columns.
You may see a slender doe pirouette like a ballet-dancing wood nymph _Frontispiece_
The woodchuck is the very mark and origin of the paunchy gnome 8
The red squirrel gets the burs after the fashion of the real sport 68
He does not have to look for his food 160
A field mouse had appropriated this nest for an autumn storehouse 182
Across the angry crimson of the west flitted silhouetted black wings 198
To-day the September west winds have begun the fall house-cleaning by sweeping the tops of the pine woods. All the morning the little brown scales which nestle close to the base of each pine leaf as it grows, protecting it from the withering force of the midsummer sun, have been soaring and spinning in high glee, curiously lighting up with brown glimmers the solemn sanctuaries beneath.
It is the first prophecy of winter under the sheltering boughs where still lingers the midsummer warmth. The chickadees, going their forenoon rounds, scold about it in a brisk fashion that is in tune with the briskness of the wind itself. In the languor of the south wind the chickadee has a little lazy song which he sings often, “Sleepee, sleepee,” a tuneful little ditty that makes you want to stretch out on the brown carpet with a mound of green moss for a pillow and let the resinous odors lull you to sleep. I always feel that the bird himself murmurs it with one eye closed and himself in danger of falling off the perch in slumber.
None of that song to-day. It’s “chick-chickachick, chick-a-chicadee dee dee,” with a snap in it like the crack of a whip. Yet the flock soon passes on, and in the dreamy warmth of the grove you know little of the vivid touch in the wind. Only enough of it comes through to set the little brown pine motes to whirling merrily as they fall, vanishing from sight like flitting elves as they touch the brown carpet below.