farm itself.

We learn to know where the springs of pure water are, welling up out of
the deep ground in a tiny pool under some big rock or between the roots
of a great yellow birch tree. And when the sun shines hot at noon, and a
lost trail and a vanished bird leave us to the sudden realization that
we are tired and thirsty, we know where is the nearest water. We know,
too, the knack of drinking so as not to swallow the little gnats that
skim its surface--you must blow them back ever so gently, and drink
before they close in again. How good it tastes as we lie at full length
on the matted brown leaves! How good the crackers taste, too, and the
crisp apples, as we sit by the spring and rest, and talk over the
morning's hunt and plan the afternoon's--subject to the caprices of the
birds.

But I suppose the very best about hunting can never be told at all. That
is true of any really good thing, and there is nothing better than a
long day after the birds. It is always good to be out of doors. And
there are seasons when one is glad to wander slowly over the fields and
byways; there are times when it seems best of all to be still--in the
heart of the woods, on the wide hill pastures, in the deep grass of the
meadows. But not in the fall! Is it a breath of the migrating instinct
that makes us want to be off and away, to go, and go, and go? Yes, fall
is the time for the hunt--gay, boisterous fall, rioting in wind and
color to keep up its spirits against the stealthy approach of winter.
And whether we shoot well or ill, whether our game pockets are heavy or
light, no matter what the weather we find or the country we cross, it is
all good hunting, very good. And at night we come in to a blazing fire,
feeling tired, oh, so tired! and hungry, oh, so hungry! and with soul
and body shriven clean by wind and sun.

XV

Beyond the Realm of Weather

Our friends say to us now and then, "But why must you do these things
with a gun? Why can't you do the same things and leave the gun at home?"
Why, indeed? When I put this question to Jonathan, he smokes on
placidly. But of one thing I am sure: if it had not been for the guns
and the ducks, I should never have known what the marshes were like in
winter fog--what they were like under a winter sky with a wind straight
from the North Pole sweeping over their bare stretches.

It was early afternoon. Through the study window I looked out upon a
raw, foggy world, melting snow underf