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

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