Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

angered us so we gathered clubs and stones and set out to knock them down. There seemed to be a special providence for worms for we missed again and again. But finally I caught the limb fair and square, and then, as Fred said,it literally rained worms.

There is an end to everything and there was to that long dust walk along that road when we arrived at a bridge that spans the Little Beaver. Clambering clumsily over a fence, we forsook the road and took to the more pleasant path along the stream. Our spirits already revived, we fixed our pole lines and hooks in readiness for fishing and presently we were strolling along the creek casting in here and there as fancy directed us.

     Walking along a creek, has a joy all its own. There is something different about it. The scene changes every moment with each little turn or twist of the water. Meadows, hayfields, weed growths dense woods, open groves, saplings, thickets follow each other in endless succession none of them ever the same. And then the delicate filmy willows that line the creeks banks; beautiful dreamy things. And the fascinating