as I struggled through them. And the sun was hot and
high--and there were innumerable small, black buzzing flies.

To cap the climax, whom should I meet as I was crossing the fence into
the lower land but my friend Horace, He had been out early looking for a
cow that had dropped her calf in the woods, and was now driving them
slowly up the lane, the cow a true pattern of solicitous motherhood, the
calf a true pattern of youth, dashing about upon uncertain legs.

"Takin' the air, David?"

I amuse Horace. Horace is an important man in this community. He has
big, solid barns, and money in the bank, and a reputation for
hardheadedness. He is also known as a "driver"; and has had sore trouble
with a favourite son. He believes in "goin' it slow" and "playin' safe,"
and he is convinced that "ye can't change human nature."

His question came to me with a kind of shock. I imagined with a
vividness impossible to describe what Horace would think if I answered
him squarely and honestly, if I were to say:

"I've been down in the marshes following my nose--enjoying the thorn
apples and the wild geraniums, talking with a woodpecker and reporting
the morning news of the woods for an imaginary newspaper."

I was hungry, and in a mood to smile at myself anyway (good-humouredly
and forgivingly as we always smile at ourselves!) before I met Horace,
and the flashing vision I had of Horace's dry, superior smile finished
me. Was there really anything in this world but cows and calves, and
great solid barns, and oatcrops, and cash in the bank?

"Been in the brook?" asked Horace, observing my wet legs.

Talk about the courage to face cannon and Cossacks! It is nothing to the
courage required to speak aloud in broad daylight of the finest things
we have in us! I was not equal to it.

"Oh, I've been down for a tramp in the marsh," I said, trying to put him
off.

But Horace is a Yankee of the Yankees and loves nothing better than to
chase his friends into corners with questions, and leave them ultimately
with the impression that they are somehow less sound, sensible,
practical, than he is and he usually proves it, not because he is right,
but because he is sure, and in a world of shadowy halt-beliefs and
half-believers he is without doubts.

"What ye find down there?" asked Horace.

"Oh, I was just looking around to see how the spring was coming on."

"Hm-m," said Horace, eloquently, and when I did not reply, he continued,
"Often g