I love them, in that the graceful hind conceals her timid fawn
among the ferns that wave on the lone banks of many a nameless rill,
threading their hills, untrodden save by the miner, or the infrequent
huntsman's foot--in that the noble stag frays oftentimes his antlers
against their giant trees--in that the mighty bear lies hushed in grim
repose amid their tangled swamps--in that their bushy dingles resound
nightly to the long-drawn howl of the gaunt famished wolf--in that the
lynx and wild-cat yet mark their prey from the pine branches--in that
the ruffed grouse drums, the woodcock bleats, and the quail chirrups
from every height or hollow--in that, more strange to tell, the noblest
game of trans-atlantic fowl, the glorious turkey--although, like angels'
visits, they be indeed but few and far between--yet spread their bronzed
tails to the sun, and swell and gobble in their most secret wilds.
"I love those hills of Warwick--many a glorious day have I passed in
their green recesses; many a wild tale have I heard of sylvan sport and
forest warfare, and many, too, of patriot partisanship in the old
revolutionary days--the days that tried men's souls--while sitting at my
noontide meal by the secluded wellhead, under the canopy of some
primeval oak, with implements of woodland sport, rifle or shot-gun by my
side, and well-broke setter or stanch hound recumbent at my feet.
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