DULCET DAYS IN THE HAMPSHIRE HILLS. 



r,Y CHARLES HALLOCK. 



Were there ever clays more charming-, 

 summer haunts more satisfying, skies 

 so bright, sim more genial, atmosphere 

 so pure ? Did mountain brooklets ever 

 run more clear or hardwood forests 

 wave their fronds more winsomely ? 

 Was ringing call of blue jay ever so 

 resonant in the glen ? And where did 

 mother partridge ever brood her fledg- 

 lings in glades so undisturbed ? 



For season after season it has been 

 my blessed privilege to see the vernal 

 buds unfold and the autumns ripen in 

 these restful Hampshire Hills ; and I 

 have watched each changeful growth 

 develop onward toward maturity with 

 an interest that fell little short of Druid 

 worship — deriving such a sense of abid- 

 ing comfort as no other spot on earth 

 bestows on me. Perhaps it is because 

 my grandparents lie in the Plainfield 

 churchyard, where I have watched for 

 more than half a century the twin hem- 

 locks, which stand sentinels over them, 

 steadfastly fulfil their jealous trust and 

 gradually extend their protecting limbs ; 

 or perhaps it is because my childhood's 

 associations intensify with lapsing years 

 and advancing age. No matter. In the 

 spring time all the bluebirds and 

 thrushes join in carolling forth the 

 praises of these, their native haimts ; 

 the peep-frogs in the meadow chirp in 

 unison ; the bees take grateful wing o'er 

 new-found flowers, and the skunk cab- 

 bage and fiddle-head brakes spring 

 forth into luxuriant sweep of foliage. 

 It is charming ! All through the joy- 

 ous summer months the landscape glows 

 with vigorous life, and in autumn the 

 big, round, yellow, harvest moon attests 

 the fulfilment of every golden promise. 



It is then I love to sniff the pungent 

 aroma of incipient decay — the fermen- 



tation which precedes the inevitable 

 mould and fungus — and I feel like lying 

 down in the still woods and letting the 

 j uncos and robins cover me up with the 

 crisp and rustling leaves, content and 

 joyous to the end. I dare say that 

 primitive Eden was no better place than 

 this — the Eden which our first parents 

 had to be dni'cu from by flaming 

 scourge ; and yet in these latter days 

 these delectable hills have been volun- 

 tarily abandoned by their tenants ! 



Few remain to possess and occupy. 

 ****** 



" It is too bad ' 



Follow an old country road in any 

 direction among these hills in North- 

 western Massachusetts, and you are 

 sure to come eventually to some old 

 ruin, a weed-choked cellar hole, or at 

 least to a neglected orchard or a tumble- 

 down stone wall. On either side the 

 old fields are overgrown with thrifty 

 young forests, and you will often find 

 pine trees and tamaracks mingling 

 familiarly with sturdy apple trees of 

 doiibtful fruitage ; and in June and 

 October the attentive ear will detect 

 the muffled drum beat of the partridge, 

 which seems afar off down the glen, but 

 is probably within the spruce copse 

 close at hand. Yonder at the cross- 

 roads, where there is a lusty poplar 

 grove, striplings of two generations 

 gone dropped potatoes for the hired 

 man to cover, and from the weathered 

 stumps which clustered in the clearing- 

 gathered many a wasp's nest packed 

 full of juicy grubs, to be used for oait 

 for trout. Down in that tangled ravine 

 stood a busy satinet factory, of which 

 scarcely one iron bolt or brace remains. 

 It would be a good place to fish for 

 trout now, were it not for the brush- 



