Professor Showerman is another author-teacher whom Wisconsin
may claim as her own. He was born at Brookfield in 1870, was
graduated from the University in 1896, and took his doctorate
in 1900. He had the advantage of two years' study at Rome,
where he was Fellow of the Archaeological Institute of
America in the American School of Classical Studies. Since
returning, he has been Professor of Latin Literature at his
Alma Mater. He is member of many learned societies, and is
the author of "With the Professor" and "The Indian Stream
Republic and Luther Parker," besides many articles which are
familiar to readers of the Atlantic Monthly and other leading
periodicals.
His style will be noted at once by the careful reader as
being different from that of most other prose writers whose
works we quote here. It is more leisurely. He brings to the
common things about us in Nature the kindly, alert
intelligence of one who has seen many things in many lands,
but who has the memory to re-create truthfully the days of
youth.
A LAD'S RECOLLECTIONS OF HIS BOYHOOD HAUNTS AND EXPERIENCES IN THE
EARLIER DAYS
"IN OCTOBER." From the Sewanee Review.
... On a late October Saturday morning, after a week in school at the
village, you take your gun and a favorite play, whistle to already
eager Billy, and follow the path to the Brush. You traverse its quiet
length by the winding road that is always mysterious and full of
charm, however often you tread it, you cross the stubbled barley-field
that borders Lovers' Lane, and cross the lane itself and enter the
Woods. You feel the friendly book in your pocket, and pat the friendly
dog at your side, restfully conscious that you will spend neither
profitless nor companionless hours. To be sure, you have in the back
of your mind a thought or two about fox squirrels, or even red
squirrels, and of a stew-pie--the savor of it is in your sensitive
nostrils; but these thoughts are only vague. Your eyes are not
greedily watchful--only moderately so; you have already begun to
outgrow the barbarous boyhood delight of mere killing. Good will
reigns in your breast.
You advance cautiously, the breech-loader resting in the bend of your
left arm, every step causing pleasant murmurs among the autumn leaves.
When you pause, the sound of your heart-beats is audible. The genial
golden tone of Indian Summer pervades the air.
When you have penetrated to the heart of the Woods, you sit down on a
familiar log, the gun caressingly across your knees, and drink in the
fine wine of woodland enjoyment! Ah, the silence of the Woods! How
deep and how full of mystery! And how deeper whenever some note of
life emphasizes the stillness--the knocking of a woodpecker, the cry
of a sapsucker, the scream of a jay, the caw of a crow aloft on some
decayed topmost branch in the distance!
A distant barking note makes you start. There is a fox squirrel over
yonder somewhere, beyond the ruins of the old arch. You strain your
attention toward the sound. Billy sits bolt upright, with round eyes,
questioning ears, and suspended breath.
But just as you are thinking of getting up, a nut drops with a thump
on the log beside you and bounds lightly into the leaves at your feet.
You know what that means! You look up instantly and catch just a
glimpse of a sweeping foxy tail as it vanishes along a big branch and
around the thick stem of a tree. He goes up forty or fifty feet, and
then, far out on the big oak branch, lies close to the bark, out of
sight.
Billy whines uneasily; he shivers with excitement. You say: "Sit
still, Billy!"
There is only the least bit of the foxy tail visible. You tread softly
to one side and another, slowly circle the tree, and all the while the
owner of the tail subtly shifts his position so that you always just
fail to get a shot.
Finally, you resort to stratagem; you pick up a nut and throw it with
all your might to the other side of the tree. He hears it fall, and,
suddenly suspicious, shifts to your side of the branch. But you are
not quick enough; by the time you have raised the gun, he has become
satisfied that you are the greater danger of the two, and has shifted
back to safety.
And now you resort to more elaborate stratagem. You say: "Sit down,
Billy!" and Billy obeys, keeping his eye on you, and dropping his ears
from time to time, as he catches your glance, in token of good-will.
You circle the big tree again, and as you go the tail shifts
constantly.
Finally, when you are opposite Billy, you raise the gun with careful
calculation. You call out quietly but sharply to your ally: "Speak,
Billy, quick!"
Billy is tense with excitement at sight of the raised gun. He speaks
out sharply, at the same time giving a couple of little leaps. The
squirrel shifts again to your side, suddenly.
And now comes your opportunity! As he sits there a moment, his
attention divided between you and the new alarm, the breech-loader
belches its charge. A brownish-red body with waving tail comes
headlong to the ground with a crash among the leaves, which rustle and
crackle for a moment or two at your feet as you watch the blind kicks
of the death struggle. You pick him up, with no very great eagerness,
and go on your way--regretfully, for you are enjoying the life of the
Woods, and are enough of a philosopher and sentimentalist to wonder
what, after all, is your superior right to the enjoyment, and whether
the contribution to the sum total of happiness in the universe through
you is enough to compensate it for the loss through the squirrel.
You ask Billy about it and get no help. He simply says that whatever
you think best is bound to be all right, and leads the way toward the
old arch.