A BERKSHIRE FLOOD. 



THE sun had been shining in a clear sky for 

 three days, and now, as the meridian of the 

 third day was passed, I could no longer resist 

 a conviction which had haunted and made me rest- 

 less many times, that yonder, in the valley behind 

 the "Jug End" range, there were lights and shades 

 awaiting the eye which one could ill afford to lose. 

 So in entire disregard of the intimations that it was too 

 hot for walking purposes, I climbed the rail-fence 

 behind the barn and started over Pasture Hill. 



There is something about such an August after- 

 noon as this was, which makes one understand and 

 respect the motive and the method of the impres- 

 sionists in painting. It was one of those days when 

 the one overpowering, dominant, and irresistible 

 thing in the landscape is light, the palpitating, lumin- 

 ous atmosphere, crowding in before everything of 

 substance and of form, itself almost becoming sub- 

 stantial and taking form. The world is drenched 

 with sunshine. The air is saturated with this down- 

 pour of sunbeams. Just as the raindrops glance from 

 the rocks and ledges, and gather in trickling streams, 

 and collect in the deeps of hollow pools, so the light 



