Three days previous to the death-night, three days previous to the
transit of the soul from the clayey tabernacle to the house not;
made with hands--from dishonour to glory--let me turn theme over as
so many leaves.
The first of the November mornings, but the summer had tarried late,
and the wood to the south of our homestead lifted itself like a
painted wall against the sky--the squirrel was leaping nimbly and
chattering gayly among the fiery tops of the oaks or the dun foliage
of the hickory, that shot up its shelving trunk and spread its
forked branches far over the smooth, moss-spotted boles of the
beeches, and the limber boughs of the elms. Lithe and blithe he was,
for his harvest was come.
From the cracked beech-burs was dropping the sweet, angular fruit,
and down from the hickory boughs with every gust fell a shower of
nuts--shelling clean and silvery from their thick black hulls.
Now and then, across the stubble-field, with long cars erect, leaped
the gray hare, but for the most part he kept close in his burrow,
for rude huntsmen were on the hills with their dogs, and only when
the sharp report of a rifle rung through the forest, or the hungry
yelping of some trailing hound startled his harmless slumber, might
you see at the mouth of his burrow the quivering lip and great timid
eyes.
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