e wing, and in securing a quantity of the spoil.

We then start again on our way, but do not advance far
before--b-r-r-r-r-r-h--off bursts a partridge, and shoots down the
vista of the road, with the dark sunshine glancing from his mottled
back. If little "Spitfire" was here, how he would yelp and dance, and
dart backward and forward, and shake his tail, so as to render it
doubtful whether it wouldn't fly off in a tangent.

Rattat, tattat, tat--tat--t-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r--there is the great
red-headed woodpecker, or woodcock, as he is called by the country
people, looking like a miniature man with a crimson turban and sable
spear, attacking the bark of yon old oak. He is making a
sounding-board of the seamed mail of the venerable monarch, to detect
by the startled writhing within the grub snugly ensconced, as it
thinks, there, in order to transfix it with his sharp tongue through
the hole made by his bill. He ceases his work though as we
approach--and now he flies away.

A mile farther, we come to the strawberry-field belonging to Deacon
Gravespeech, the outlines of whose dark, low farm-house are etched on
the mist which is again slowly spreading over the landscape, for it is
now near sunset. Having left the forest, we see the mild red orb, like
an immense ruby, just in the act of sinking in the bank of pale blue
which now thickens the Western horizon. But what have we here? A
splendid butternut tree, with quantities of the oval fruit scattered
about amidst the brown leaves, in their coats of golden green. What a
rich lustre is upon them, made brighter by the varnish, and how
delightful their pungent perfume. Let us crack a few of the strong,
deeply-fluted shells. In their tawny nooks nestle the dark,
golden-veined meats, which with the most delicious sweetness crumble
in the mouth.

Of all the fruits of the Northern forests give me the butternut; and,
speaking of fruits puts me in mind of the strawberry field. I was here
with a small party one day last June. The field was then scattered
thickly over with the bright crimson spotting fruit, and the fingers
of all of us were soon dyed deeply with the sweet blood. There is
great skill in picking strawberries, let me tell you, reader, although
it is a trifle. Go to work systematically, and don't get excited.
Gather all as you go, indiscriminately. Don't turn to the right for
two splendid berries, and leave the one in front, for it is just as
likely, before you gather the t