Hunting in New England
The leaves ran and danced about like children through the sun and up the well worn path. I chuckled as I imagined their laughter. Wrestling and tumbling, running and dancing. As usual, there were chickadees jumping from tree to tree encountering a disgruntled squirrel now and again as the red and the grey sought to winterize their nests. This was a favorite place of mine in which to hunt. I have had red fox comes near enough for me to touch. I have seen great white owls that had swooped down over my head only to land in a nearby sapling to observe me observing them. I have flushed up woodcock and pheasant and have walked deer sign as I searched the woods for a trophy. Ah, to hold a gun in your arms! It seemed a part of my heritage. It felt natural to hold one. The weight, the smell, the ritual of loading, firing, and cleaning the gun. It was as though carrying the gun and having it in my possession made me Lord of my surroundings. It was better than having a good looking girl on my arm...