Natures Serial Story | Page 2

and complete, as we enter into their
life and comprehend it. The clouds above us are not mere reservoirs of
water for prosaic use. In their light, shade, and exquisite coloring they
are ever a reproach to the blindness of coarse and earthy minds.
The love of Nature is something that may be developed in every heart,
and it is a love that rarely fails to purify and exalt. To many she is a
cold, indifferent beauty. They see, but do not know and appreciate her,
and she passes on her way as if they were nothing to her. But when
wooed patiently and lovingly, she stops to smile, caress, and entertain
with exhaustless diversion.
In this simple home story I have talked, perhaps, like a garrulous lover
who must speak of his mistress, even though his words weary others. I
console myself, however, with the thought that my text has proved the

prosaic root and stem which have given being to the exquisite flowers
of art that adorn these pages. In Mr. Gibson and Mr. Dielman I have
had ideal associates in the work. They have poured light on a landscape
that would otherwise be dull and gray.
My characters may seem shadows to others, but they have become real,
or were real, to me. I meet them still in walks and drives where in fancy
I had placed them before. I would not have to go very far to find types
of the children introduced, but the lovers, and the majority of the others,
began as shadows in the background of imagination, and took form and
substance with time. Dr. Marvin, however, is a reality and a most
valued friend, who has assisted me greatly in my work. Any one who
has the good-fortune to meet Dr. E. A. Mearns, surgeon in the regular
army, can scarcely fail to recognize in him the genial sportsman for
whom the birds were "always in season." There are others to whom I
am indebted, like John Burroughs, Thoreau, Baird, Brewer, and
Ridgway, true lovers and interpreters of Nature. Those living stand near
her queenly presence; those who have passed on are doubtless nearer
still.

CONTENTS
I. A COUNTRY HOME
II. AMY WINFIELD
III. A COUNTRY FIRESIDE
IV. GUNNING BY MOONLIGHT
V. CHRISTMAS EVE AND MORNING
VI. NATURE'S HALF-KNOWN SECRETS
VII. NEIGHBORS DROP IN
VIII. EAGLES
IX. SLEIGHING IN THE HIGHLANDS
X. A WINTER THUNDER-STORM
XI. NATURE UNDER GLASS
XII. A MOUNTAINEER'S HOVEL
XIII. ALMOST A TRAGEDY
XIV. HINTS OF SPRING
XV. NATURE'S BUILDING MATERIALS
XVI. GOSSIP ABOUT BIRD NEIGHBORS
XVII. FISHING THROUGH THE ICE

XVIII. PLANNING AND OPENING THE CAMPAIGN
XIX. WINTER'S EXIT
XX. A ROYAL CAPTIVE
XXI. SPRING'S HARBINGERS
XXII. FIRST TIMES
XXIII. REGRETS AND DUCK-SHOOTING
XXIV. APRIL
XXV. EASTER
XXVI. VERY MOODY
XXVII. SHAD-FISHING BY PROXY
XXVIII. MAY AND GIRLHOOD
XXIX. NATURE'S WORKSHOP
XXX. SPRING-TIME PASSION
XXXI. JUNE AND HONEY-BEES
XXXII. BURT BECOMES RATIONAL
XXXIII. WEBB'S ROSES AND ROMANCE
XXXIV. A SHAM BATTLE AT WEST POINT
XXXV. CHASED BY A THUNDER-SHOWER
XXXVI. THE RESCUE OF A HOME
XXXVII. A MIDNIGHT TEMPEST
XXXVIII. THE TWO LOVERS
XXXIX. BURT'S ADVENTURE
XL. MISS HARGROVE
XLI. A FIRE IN THE MOUNTAINS
XLII. CAMPING OUT
XLIII. AN OLD TENEMENT
XLIV. "BUT HE RISKED HIS LIFE?"
XLV. SUMMER'S WEEPING FAREWELL
XLVI. FATHER AND DAUGHTER
XLVII. DISQUIET WITHIN AND WITHOUT
XLVIII. IDLEWILD
XLIX. ECHOES OF A PAST STORM
L. IMPULSES OF THE HEART
LI. WEBB'S FATEFUL EXPEDITION
LII. BURT'S SORE DILEMMA
LIII. BURT'S RESOLVE
LIV. A GENTLE EXORCIST

LV. BURT TELLS HIS LOVE AGAIN
LVI. WEBB'S FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER
LVII. OCTOBER HUES AND HARVESTS
LVIII. THE MOONLIGHT OMEN
LIX. THE ROSE REVEALS ITS HEART
LX. CHRISTMAS LIGHTS AND SHADOWS

NATURE'S SERIAL STORY

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO MY WIFE

NATURE'S SERIAL STORY

CHAPTER I
A COUNTRY HOME
How much it means--what possibilities it suggests! The one I shall
describe was built not far from half a century ago, and the lapsing years
have only made it more homelike. It has long ceased to be a new
object-- an innovation--and has become a part of the landscape, like the
trees that have grown up around it. Originally painted brown, with the
flight of time it has taken a grayish tinge, as if in sympathy with its
venerable proprietor. It stands back from the roadway, and in summer
has an air of modest seclusion. Elms, maples, and shrubbery give to the
passer-by but chance glimpses of the wide veranda, which is indicated,
rather than revealed, beyond the thickly clustering vines.
It is now late December, and in contrast with its leafy retirement the old
homestead stands out with a sharp distinctness in the white landscape;
and yet its sober hue harmonizes with the dark boles of the trees, and
suggests that, like them, it is a natural