Even his present desperate situation couldn't spoil his memories of other days in the woods: like the lovely, lazy day he shot eleven squirrels.... He could remember the afternoon as if it were yesterday. It wasn't, of course--actually it had been several years back. It had been around the middle of autumn, about the time when the last incarnadine leaves were making their fluttering journeys earthward. He had taken his .22 and gone into the woods where the hickory trees were, and he had settled himself comfortably against the shaggy trunk of one of the hickories, the .22 balanced across his sprawled knees. Then he had waited.…
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