Part 1

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By Rowland E. Robinson

OUT OF BONDAGE. 16mo, $1.25.

IN NEW ENGLAND FIELDS AND WOODS. 16mo, $1.25.

DANVIS FOLKS. A Novel. 16mo. $1.25.

UNCLE 'LISHA'S OUTING. 16mo, $1.25.

A DANVIS PIONEER. 16mo, $1.25.

SAM LOVEL'S BOY. 16mo, $1.25.

VERMONT: A Study of Independence. In American Commonwealths Series. With Map. 16mo, gilt top, $1.25.

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY, BOSTON AND NEW YORK.

In New England Fields and Woods

By Rowland E. Robinson

Boston and New York Houghton, Mifflin and Company The Riverside Press, Cambridge

Copyright, 1896, BY ROWLAND E. ROBINSON.

All rights reserved.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

The weather and the changes of the seasons are such common and convenient topics that one need not apologize for talking about them, though he says nothing new.

Still less need one make an apology if he becomes garrulous in relation to scenes which are now hidden from him by a curtain of darkness, or concerning some humble acquaintances with whom he was once on familiar terms, but who now and hereafter can only be memories, though they are yet near him and he may still hear their voices.

So without excuse I offer this collection of sketches, which with a few exceptions were first published in the columns of "Forest and Stream." R. E. R.

CONTENTS

I. THE NAMELESS SEASON II. MARCH DAYS III. THE HOME FIRESIDE IV. THE CROW V. THE MINK VI. APRIL DAYS VII. THE WOODCHUCK VIII. THE CHIPMUNK IX. SPRING SHOOTING X. THE GARTER-SNAKE XI. THE TOAD XII. MAY DAYS XIII. THE BOBOLINK XIV. THE GOLDEN-WINGED WOODPECKER XV. JUNE DAYS XVI. THE BULLFROG XVII. THE ANGLER XVIII. FARMERS AND FIELD SPORTS XIX. TO A TRESPASS SIGN XX. A GENTLE SPORTSMAN XXI. JULY DAYS XXII. CAMPING OUT XXIII. THE CAMP-FIRE XXIV. A RAINY DAY IN CAMP XXV. AUGUST DAYS XXVI. A VOYAGE IN THE DARK XXVII. THE SUMMER CAMP-FIRE XXVIII. THE RACCOON XXIX. THE RELUCTANT CAMP-FIRE XXX. SEPTEMBER DAYS XXXI. A PLEA FOR THE UNPROTECTED XXXII. THE SKUNK XXXIII. A CAMP-FIRE RUN WILD XXXIV. THE DEAD CAMP-FIRE XXXV. OCTOBER DAYS XXXVI. A COMMON EXPERIENCE XXXVII. THE RED SQUIRREL XXXVIII. THE RUFFED GROUSE XXXIX. TWO SHOTS XL. NOVEMBER DAYS XLI. THE MUSKRAT XLII. NOVEMBER VOICES XLIII. THANKSGIVING XLIV. DECEMBER DAYS XLV. WINTER VOICES XLVI. THE VARYING HARE XLVII. THE WINTER CAMP-FIRE XLVIII. JANUARY DAYS XLIX. A NEW ENGLAND WOODPILE L. A CENTURY OF EXTERMINATION LI. THE PERSISTENCY OF PESTS LII. THE WEASEL LIII. FEBRUARY DAYS LIV. THE FOX LV. AN ICE-STORM LVI. SPARE THE TREES LVII. THE CHICKADEE

IN NEW ENGLAND FIELDS AND WOODS

THE NAMELESS SEASON

In the March page of our almanac, opposite the 20th of the month we find the bold assertion, "Now spring begins;" but in the northern part of New England, for which this almanac was especially compiled, the weather does not bear out the statement.

The snow may be gone from the fields except in grimy drifts, in hollows and along fences and woodsides; but there is scarcely a sign of spring in the nakedness of pasture, meadow, and ploughed land, now more dreary in the dun desolation of lifeless grass, debris of stacks, and black furrows than when the first snow covered the lingering greenness of December.

It is quite as likely that the open lands are still under the worn and dusty blanket of snow, smirched with all the litter cast upon it by cross-lot-faring teams, and wintry winds blowing for months from every quarter. The same untidiness pervades all outdoors. We could never believe that so many odds and ends could have been thrown out of doors helter-skelter, in three months of ordinary life, till the proof confronts us on the surface of the subsiding snow or lies stranded on the bare earth. The wind comes with an icier breath from the wintrier north, and yet blows untempered from the south, over fields by turns frozen and sodden, through which the swollen brooks rush in yellow torrents with sullen monotonous complaint.

One may get more comfort in the woods, though the snow still lies deep in their shelter; for here may be found the sugar-maker's camp, with its mixed odors of pungent smoke and saccharine steam, its wide environment of dripping spouts and tinkling tin buckets, signs that at last the pulse of the trees is stirred by a subtle promise of returning spring.