When I left the campground of the fishermen, it was late.
As I walked along, I could feel the hard bulge of the magazine jammed deep in the pocket of my overalls.
The beautiful silence that follows the setting sun had settled over the river bottoms.
The coolness of the rich, black soil felt good to my bare feet.
It was the time of day when all furried things come to life.
A big swamp rabbit hopped out on the trail, sat on his haunches, stared at me, and then scampered away.
A mother gray squirrel ran out on the limb of a burr oak tree.
She barked a warning to the four furry balls behind her. They melted from sight in the thick green.
A silent gray shadow drifted down from the top of a tall sycamore. There was a squeal and a beating of wings.
I heard the tinkle of a bell in the distance ahead.
I knew it was Daisy, our milk cow. I’d have to start her on the way home.
I took the magazine from my pocket and again I read the ad.
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