It was growing dark when I returned; but there was Will Hall atop the stump. I drew up in the road.
“Grown fast to that stump, Will?” I called. “Want me to try to pull you off?”
“No, not yet,” he replied, jacking himself painfully to his feet. “Chillin’ up some, ain’t it?” he added shaking himself. “Might’s well go home, I guess”—when from the direction of Young’s Meadows came the eager voice of his dogs; and, waving me on, he got quickly back atop the stump, his gun ready across his knees.
I was nearly home when, through the muffle of the darkening woods, I heard the quick bang! bang! of Will’s gun.
Yes, he got him, a fine red fox. And speaking to me about it one day, he said,—
“There’s a lot more to sittin’ still than most folks thinks. The trouble is, most folks in the woods can’t stand the monopoly of it.”
Will’s English needs touching up in spots; but he can show the professors a great many things about the ways of the woods.
And now what does the doctor mean by “No dreaming or thumb-twiddling” in the woods? Just this: that not only must you be silent and motionless for hours at a time, but you must also be alert—watchful, keen, ready to take a hint, to question, guess, and interpret. The fields and woods are not full of life, but full only of the sounds, shadows, and signs of life.
You are atop of your stump, when over the ridge you hear a slow, quiet rustle in the dead leaves—a skunk; then a slow, loud rustle—a turtle; then a quick, loud—one-two-three—rustle—a chewink; then a tiny, rapid rustle—a mouse; then a long, rasping rustle—a snake; then a measured, galloping rustle—a squirrel; then a light-heavy, hop-thump rustle—a rabbit; then—and not once have you seen the rustlers in the leaves beyond the ridge; and not once have you stirred from your stump.