I added, however:  “The evenings have grown so long that you can write for half an hour after supper, and then we will review your arithmetic together.  It will do me good as well as you.”

During the ensuing weeks we carried out this plan partially, but after a busy day in the open air we were apt to nod over our tasks.  We were both taught the soundness of the principle that brain work should precede physical exercise.

The 1st day of October was bright, clear, and mild, and we welcomed the true beginning of fall in our latitude most gladly.  This month competes with May in its fitness for ideal country life.  The children voted it superior to all other months, feeling that a vista of unalloyed delights was opening before them.  Already the butternuts were falling from several large trees on the place, and the burrs on the chestnuts were plump with their well-shielded treasures.  Winnie and Bobsey began to gather these burrs from the lower limbs of an immense tree, eighteen feet in circumference, and to stamp out the half-brown nuts within.

“One or two frosts will ripen them and open the burrs,” I said, and then the children began to long for the frost which I dreaded.

While I still kept the younger children busy for a few hours every clear morning in the garden, and especially at clipping the runners from the strawberry plants in the field, they were given ample time to gather their winter hoards of nuts.  This pursuit afforded them endless items for talk, Bobsey modestly assuring us that he alone would gather about a million bushels of butternuts, and almost as many chestnuts and walnuts.  “What will the squirrels do then?” I asked.

“They must do as I do,” he cried; “pick up and carry off as fast as they can.  They’ll have a better chance than me, too, for they can work all day long.  The little scamps are already taking the nuts off the trees—­I’ve seen ’em, and I wish Merton would shoot ’em all.”

“Well, Merton,” said I, laughing, “I suppose that squirrels are proper game for you; but I hope that you and Junior won’t shoot robins.  They are too useful a bird to kill, and I feel grateful for all the music they’ve given us during the past summer.  I know the law permits you to shoot them now, but you and Junior should be more civilized than such a law.”

“If we don’t get ’em, everybody else will, and we might as well have our share,” he replied.

I knew that there was no use in drawing the reins too tight, and so I said:  “I have a proposition to make to you and Junior.  I’d like you both to promise not to shoot robins except on the wing.  That will teach you to be expert and quick-eyed.  A true sportsman is not one who tries to kill as much game as possible, but to kill scientifically, skilfully.  There is more pleasure in giving your game a chance, and in bringing it down with a fine long shot, than in slaughtering the poor creatures like chickens in a coop.  Anybody can shoot a robin, sitting on a bough a few yards off, but to bring one down when in rapid flight is the work of a sportsman.  Never allow yourself to be known as a mere ‘pot-hunter.’  For my part, I had rather live on pork than on robins or any useful birds.”