24 IRature Stufcfee in Berfcebire. 



Crossing the ridge and the valley on its western 

 side, and extricating myself from the threatening 

 complications of a barbed-wire fence, I found myself 

 at the entrance of what was once a town road, now 

 disused on account of a better one which had been 

 made about half a mile to the north. There is 

 always something a little pathetic about an aban- 

 doned road, growing up with weeds and vines and 

 grasses, a memory of usefulness past, a picturesque 

 ruin for the present. But there is really no need of 

 wasting sentiment on it. The abandoned road gener- 

 ally means that a better one has taken its place. The 

 wild things are growing in the old road because 

 travel is smoother, easier, and safer in the new. The 

 abandoned farms and homesteads, too, in many New 

 England towns, most frequently tell a tale not of ruin 

 to the household, but of a larger prosperity or a better 

 chance for it which has taken them to fairer fields. 

 I was willing to accept the old road as a decorative 

 effect in the landscape, and let it pass for that. It 

 was a good short cut to the glen I was seeking, and 

 it afforded a most entrancing view of a wooded range 

 of mountains just catching the shadows as the sun 

 slanted across the topmost ridges. 



This point of view was another witness in favour 

 of the impressionists. The scene it commanded bore 

 ample testimony in favour of their favourite purples 

 and blues. This early twilight on the shady side of 

 the hills is a rapture to the lover of colour. If nature 

 could always have the "blues" like this nobody 



