The Best Place of All. 5 



May brought such an invasicn of warblers into our garden 

 as has not since been equalled or even approached, so our 

 beginning was unusually favorable, although we took it as a 

 matter of course and believed it was merely an affair of the 

 blind receiving sight. 



By the next year we were finding out little by little that 

 it was not necessary to go abroad in the land to see most 

 birds, for only two blocks from us lay the entrance to the 

 Best Place of All. That the best things in life are usually 

 close at hand, experience has gently taught me. I do not 

 dispute that others discovered this truth long ago, but I 

 claim the right to reiterate it since it is mine by right of 

 discovery. 



If I were to take you to our favorite haunt we would 

 saunter over to the next street and pause — but merely for a 

 moment to undo the gate — before a small pasture in which 

 four or five cows, more or less amicable, may be found 

 browsing in summer. It is both an ordinary scene and a 

 clumsy gate, but just beyond lies the pathway to much joy 

 and content. 



Once upon a time a man of wealth thought to have a 

 country home here, so he cut a road down the bank and 

 through the valley beyond, terracing a slope here and there 

 and setting out grape vines. Why he abandoned his plan I 

 do not know — accepting the blessing without inquiry. A 

 grassy carpet covers the terraced banks from which the vines 

 have mostly disappeared, and over the pathway once des- 

 tined for a drive vines and shrubs arch lovingly. 



The man who made this foot-path way has gone to his 

 long rest and it matters little to the loiterers in the valley 

 who pays the taxes, enough that it is ours. Mr. Bradford 

 Torrey, it is true, pays cheerfully and even joyfully the taxes 

 on his bit of woodland, and Mr. Burroughs, I believe, owns 

 land in the vicinity of Slabsides, but I question if they own 

 their land an}' more truly than we, ours. 



But we have not yet gone down the hill. That tree at 

 the left is a wild crab-apple. We used to drive three miles 



