upon a prostrate maple trunk. Then it was spring, the trees in fresh leaf, the grass newly sprung, the world full of music. Bobolinks were rollicking in the meadow below, and swallows twittered overhead. Then I sat in the shade. Now there was neither bobolink nor swallow, and when I looked about for a seat I chose the sunny side of the wall.
Only four months, and the year was already old. But the mountains seemed not to know it. Washington, Jefferson, and Adams; Lafayette, Haystack, and Moosilauke;—not a cloud was upon one of them. And between me and them lay the greenest of valleys.
So for the forenoon hours I sat and walked by turns; stopping beside a house to enjoy a flock of farm-loving birds,—bluebirds especially, with voices as sweet in autumn as in spring,—loitering under the long arch of willows, taking a turn in the valley woods, where a drumming grouse was almost the only musician, and thence by easy stages sauntering homeward for dinner.
For the afternoon I have chosen a road that might have been made on purpose for
