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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 2 2 4 plunge into a hidden seep. There is frustrating foliage, green for the most part and only clotted with the scarlet of red maples. Shirt sleeve weather – and spider webs, and bird aphids that tickle. It is always too hot and the cover is too thick, and the panting dogs are eager to plunge into every woodland pool. But it's Opening Day!" Frank Wooolner, Timberdoodle, 1974. Submitted by Steven Masello of Evanston, Illinois. I ponder the advantages of being a sometime-child. Of being able, when the occasion Reader Favorites u o t e s O l At first the bird did not appear to be hit, then it turned straight up, flying vertically until it became a silver silhouette against the sky. High above the man and the dog the ascent stopped, yet still the wings fought on. For frozen seconds the bird hung in the air, straining like Icarus toward an impossible zenith. Robert Holthouser, A High, Lonesome Call, 2001. Submitted by Larry Brooks of Greensboro, North Carolina. Only the wild animal is properly in the countryside, not just on top of it, simply having it in view. If we want to enjoy that intense and pure happiness which is a "return to Nature," we have to seek the company of the surly beast, descend to his level, feel emulation toward him, pursue him. This is a subtle right of the hunt. Jose Ortega y Gasset, Mediations on Hunting, 1972. Submitted by John E. Reesor of Shakopee, Minnesota. Then, too swiftly for those of us who have attained middle age, it is October again! Now we greet with a lover's ecstasy the wild, tortured hillsides where brambles tear a man's wrists, and the alder run where hunting boots are never quite adequate to prevent a knee-deep Send us your favorite quotes from sporting literature and receive one free gift subscription for every quote that is published. Include the author, title of book and date of publication. Send to: Quotes, Sporting Classics, PO Box 23707, Columbia, SC 29224 asks it, to shed my adult skin and stand raw and bright to receive the world. The feeling lets me leave myself as a metamorphosing cicada leaves its transparent husk clinging to a tree. Charles Fergus, The Wingless Crow, 1984. Submitted by Roger A. Bradley of East Petersburg, Pennsylvania. Lifting my head to scan the increasingly brighter sky lets the stiff wind sneak under my coat to deliver a chill and cut at the back of my ears. I shuffle my position to keep it out as the sounds of ducks begin to resonate in the distance. The perfect solitude of those minutes unshackles the spirit from life's daily burdens and stirs the soul to appreciate the privilege of being a visitor in nature's house. Mark Morgan, A View from Blind and Field, 2012. Submitted by Paul Tice of Aberdeen, South Dakota. A river is water in its loveliest form; rivers have life and sound and movement and an infinity of variation; rivers are veins of the earth through which the life blood returns to the heart. Roderick Haig-Brown, A River Never Sleeps, 1946. Submitted by Jon Osborn of Holland, Michigan.