A HILL PASTURE. 



THROUGH the barnyard and over the worn 

 grass of Pasture Hill, down past the corner 

 where the lady-fern and dicksonia grow, 

 under the old, battered pine, and around the north- 

 westerly edge of the swamp, that is the way to the 

 hill pasture. For this route brings you up to the 

 place where the rail fence is easiest to climb and 

 where moth-mulleins stand guard like tall, slim 

 sentries over the gateway to the field. 



As for times and seasons, it is best to go there 

 either in the forenoon of a day when the northwest 

 wind blows fresh and strong, and brings down fleecy 

 clouds through a deep blue sky all the way from 

 Greylock and Hoosac, or else to wait until the shad- 

 ows are slanting down the hill with the westering 

 of the sun on a clear afternoon. The bracing north- 

 wester promises the widest outlook, the most abund- 

 ant play of light and shade, the liveliest music 

 among the leaves. But the afternoon hour is en- 

 livened by the sweet symphony of the woodland 

 birds, and the dreamy haze on East Mountain and 

 Tom Ball is as potent as a magic spell to him who is 

 susceptible to the hypnotism of nature. 



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