166 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



and seemed to care nothing about the natural 

 surroundings of their home. The only one who 

 showed even kindly curiosity felt sure that 

 Honeypot Hill was what I meant, and pointed 

 out a shadeless gravel bubble just across the 

 Assabet. Finding an old resident I learned 

 that Nobscot Hill was six or seven miles away 

 in Sudbury. ' Could I hire a horse ? No, it 

 would be impossible to secure one. 



Left to the treeless fields of Rockbottom, the 

 meadows of the listless Assabet and the allure- 

 ments of Honeypot Hill, I felt something akin 

 to despair gnawing at my temper. I could not 

 even go home, for the next train did not start 

 for the city until six P. M. The heat was worthy 

 of July, but in spite of it I chose the railway 

 embankment as a short cut across the Assabet 

 and its meadows to the only piece of woods in 

 sight. Dressed as warmly as on my January 

 walks, for the wind had been east and the sky 

 cold when I left Cambridge, I strolled down the 

 half-mile of track, enjoying Nature as an Esqui- 

 maux might enjoy the Sahara. The sun's light 

 caught in the ripples of the Assabet, and each 

 reflection seemed a flame. An oriole sang from 

 the midst of a snowy pinnacle of pear blossoms, 

 and his plumage seemed to burn in its midst. 

 Two tiny redstarts chased each other in irregu- 

 lar circles above the bushes, and as I glanced at 



