“You have no business here:  what are you after?” I repeated.

“Looking for a lost hen,” said the man as he strode away.

The reply was so satisfactory and conclusive that I shut the blinds and went to bed.

But one evening I overhauled one of the poachers.  Hearing his dog in the thicket, I rushed through the brush, and came in sight of the hunter as he was retreating down the road.  He came to a halt; and we had some conversation in a high key.  Of course I threatened to prosecute him.  I believe that is the thing to do in such cases; but how I was to do it, when I did not know his name or ancestry, and couldn’t see his face, never occurred to me. (I remember, now, that a farmer once proposed to prosecute me when I was fishing in a trout-brook on his farm, and asked my name for that purpose.) He said he should smile to see me prosecute him.

“You can’t do it:  there ain’t no notice up about trespassing.”

This view of the common law impressed me; and I said,

“But these are private grounds.”

“Private h—–!” was all his response.

You can’t argue much with a man who has a gun in his hands, when you have none.  Besides, it might be a needle-gun, for aught I knew.  I gave it up, and we separated.

There is this disadvantage about having a game preserve attached to your garden:  it makes life too lively.

FOURTEENTH WEEK

In these golden latter August days, Nature has come to a serene equilibrium.  Having flowered and fruited, she is enjoying herself.  I can see how things are going:  it is a down-hill business after this; but, for the time being, it is like swinging in a hammock, —­such a delicious air, such a graceful repose!  I take off my hat as I stroll into the garden and look about; and it does seem as if Nature had sounded a truce.  I did n’t ask for it.  I went out with a hoe; but the serene sweetness disarms me.  Thrice is he armed who has a long-handled hoe, with a double blade.  Yet to-day I am almost ashamed to appear in such a belligerent fashion, with this terrible mitrailleuse of gardening.

The tomatoes are getting tired of ripening, and are beginning to go into a worthless condition,—­green.  The cucumbers cumber the ground,—­great yellow, over-ripe objects, no more to be compared to the crisp beauty of their youth than is the fat swine of the sty to the clean little pig.  The nutmeg-melons, having covered themselves with delicate lace-work, are now ready to leave the vine.  I know they are ripe if they come easily off the stem.

Moral Observations.—­You can tell when people are ripe by their willingness to let go.  Richness and ripeness are not exactly the same.  The rich are apt to hang to the stem with tenacity.  I have nothing against the rich.  If I were not virtuous, I should like to be rich.  But we cannot have everything, as the man said when he was down with small-pox and cholera, and the yellow fever came into the neighborhood.