wentdownthehill，crossedthecreekonthestepping-stones，andfollowedthecowpathintothewoodspasture。Itranbesidethecreekbankthroughthespicethicketandblackberrypatches，underpawpawgroves，andbeneathgiantoaksandelms。Justwherethecreekturnedattheopenpasture，belowthechurchandcemetery，rightatthedeepbend，stoodthebiggestwhiteoakfatherowned。ItwasaboutatreeexactlylikethisthatanEnglishmanwroteabeautifulpoeminMcGuffey’sSixth，thatbegins：
“Asongtotheoak，thebraveoldoak，Whohathruledinthegreenwoodlong；
Here’shealthandrenowntohisbroadgreencrown，Andhisfiftyarmssostrong。“
Iknewitwasthesame，becauseIcountedthearmstimeandagain，andtherewereexactlyfifty。Therewasapawpawandspicehedgearoundthreesidesofthisone，andwaterontheother。Wildgrapesclimbedfromthebushestothelowerbranchesandtrailedbacktoearthagain。Here，IhadtwosecretsI
didn’tproposetotell。Onewasthatinthecrotchofsometiptopbranchesthebiggestchickenhawksyoueversawhadtheirnest，andiftheytooktoomanychickensfathersaidthey’dhavetobefrightenedalittlewithagun。Ican’tbegintotellhowIlovedthosehawks。TheydidtheonethingIwantedtomost，andnevercould。WhenIsawthemserenelysoarabovethelowestofthesoftfleecySeptemberclouds，Iwaswildwithenvy。I