you look over the tangled undergrowth of hazel, sumac, and briers, far
through the trunks of the trees to the western sky which is bathed in
flame color, as if from a forest fire.

You are alone and yet not alone. A rabbit scurries across your
pathway. A faint little squeak voices the fright of a mouse. There is
a swoop of wings which you neither distinctly hear nor clearly see,
yet you are aware, in a less marked degree than was the mouse, that an
owl was near. You feel certain that the downy woodpecker is asleep in
that neat little round hole on the southwest side of a tree trunk,
just a little higher than you can reach. In the early afternoon you
saw a red squirrel go gaily up a tall red oak and climb into his nest
of leaves. You fancy he is snugly coiled there now. This recent hill
of fresh dirt--strange sight in January--was surely made by a mole,
and you know that they are all somewhere beneath your feet: moles,
pocket gophers, and the pretty striped gopher which used to sit up on
his hind legs, fold his front paws, and look at you in the summer
time, then give a low whistle and duck; meadow mice in their cozy
tunnels through which the water will be pouring when the spring
freshets come; the woodchuck in his long, long sleep, and the chipmunk
with his winter store of food. And so watching, listening, and musing
you come at length to the western edge of the woodland and look across
the prairie, far as the eye can reach, to where the red ball of the
sun hangs scarce a yard above the horizon. You look upon a scene which
is peculiar to this part of Iowa alone. It is not found in any other
state or nation on earth. "These are the gardens of the desert, for
which the speech of England has no name--the Prairies."

_"Lo they stretch
In airy undulations, far away,