countless numbers printed
their tell-tale records in the snow, and quail and partridges nested
beneath the down-drooping branches of the red oaks. Squirrels ran from
tree to tree and we were soon able to distinguish and name most of the
tracks made by the birds and small animals, and we took a never-failing
delight in this study of the wild. In most of my excursions my sister
was my companion. My brother was too small.

All my memories of this farm are of the fiber of poetry. The silence of
the snowy aisles of the forest, the whirring flight of partridges, the
impudent bark of squirrels, the quavering voices of owls and coons, the
music of the winds in the high trees,--all these impressions unite in my
mind like parts of a woodland symphony. I soon learned to distinguish
the raccoon's mournful call from the quavering cry of the owl, and I
joined the hired man in hunting rabbits from under the piles of brush in
the clearing. Once or twice some ferocious, larger animal, possibly a
panther, hungrily yowled in the impenetrable thickets to the north, but
this only lent a still more enthralling interest to the forest.

To the east, an hour's walk through the timber, stood the village, built
and named by the "Friends" who had a meeting house not far away, and
though I saw much of them, I never attended their services.

Our closest neighbor was a gruff loud-voiced old Norwegian and from his
children (our playmates) we learned many curious facts. All Norwegians,
it appeared, ate from wooden plates or wooden bowls. Their food was soup
which they called "bean swaagen" and they were all yellow haired and
blue-eyed.

Harriet and I and one Lars Peterson gave a great deal of time to an
attempt to train a yoke of yearling calves to draw our handsled. I call
it an attempt, for we hardly got beyond a struggle to overcome the
stubborn resentment of the stupid beasts, who very naturally objected to
being forced into service before their time. Harriet was ten, I was not
quite nine, and Lars was only twelve, hence we spent long hours in
yoking and unyoking our unruly span. I believe we did actually haul
several loads of firewood to the kitchen door, but at last Buck and Brin
"turned the yoke" and broke it, and that ended our teaming.

The man from whom we acquired our farm had in some way domesticated a
flock of wild geese, and though they must have been a part of the
farm-yard during the winter, they made no deep impression on my mind