Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

refused to let him go on, growling their anger. Several children of different sizes were up at the house watching, and so not wanting to make any unnecessary trouble, I decided not to interfere with the dogs until they really hurt Buster, especially as it was on their land; but I determined to administer some rocks on a few of them if it came to fighting. 

But it was unnecessary to do this.  To be sure, I believe one of them nipped him, but, Buster showed that he was ready to stand up for himself and so, after forcing him with a lot of growling out into the field, they finally went barking home.  Calling to Buster, who came joyfully running up, I turned in at the end of Forker’s Woods, and followed the merry stream.

At one place I found a pile of bird-feathers, strewn over the ground.  They were mostly grey and white, but a few were of a dull orange, and I thought it had probably been a ground oriole.  As I looked down at them I wondered what misfortune had befallen this creature, as it crept along over the leaves.  Was it a battle between two birds?  Or more likely had a weasel sprung out upon him and torn him to pieces?

Picking up a perfect wing-feather I carefully put it in my pocket, and went on following the stream for a