perfect bird for him who knows of eating; the bird which is to others
what the long-treasured product of some Rhine hillside or Italian
vineyard is to the vintage of the day, what old Roquefort or Stilton is
to curd, what the sweet, dense, musky perfume of the hyacinth is to the
shallow scent of rhododendron. Even the Titian-haired setter
recognized the imperial nature of the woodcock, and was all emotion
about the willow-clumps.

Of course, from one point of view it is absurd, to thus depart from a
simple story upon the killing or the cooking or the flavor of a bird.
But I am telling of Grant Harlson and the woman he later found, and it
seems to me that even such matters as these, the sport he had, and the
facts and fancies he acquired, are part of the story, and have
something to do with defining and making clear the forming knowingness,
and character, and habits and inclinations of the man. Between him who
knows old Tokay and woodcock, and the other man, there is every
distinction. Harlson had learned his woodcock, but the Tokay was yet
to come.

And the fence neared its end. The young man almost regretted it, eager
as he had become to test his strength in the great city. Physically,
it was grand for him. What thews he gained; what bands of muscle
criss-crosses between and below his shoulders! What arms he had and
what full cushions formed upon his chest! That was the maul. How he
ate and drank and slept!

The days shortened, and the hoar frosts in the early morning made the
fence look a thing in silver-work strung through the woods. Where the
oxen had stepped in some soft place were now, at the beginning of the
day, thin flakes of ice. Even in the depth of the clover-mow the