FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 19 



contrasts as strongly with the bustle below, 

 if not so impressively, as under the cold light 

 of the moon. My companion reminded me 

 of the poem as our horses climbed the steep 

 road, and told how the singer herself now 

 reposes (as to the physical part) in that 

 village on the hill where there s 



Never a clock to toll the hours. 



These people are as hospitable as one 

 could ask to find. Here comes a good lady 

 day after day and picks me up and carries 

 me in the smoothest rolling of carriages far 

 away among the hills, from which we can 

 look back at our village at long range, or 

 down into new valleys or over distant ridges. 

 This time it was past Mrs. Rose Terry 

 Cooke s former home, and by a winding 

 river which tumbled and brawled over the 

 rocks in pleasant fashion, and then upon a 

 broad summit whence we could look over 

 toward a region which, perhaps, from its 

 contorted mass of hills and ridges, or per 

 haps from the unconventional habits or man 

 ners of its denizens has earned from the 

 inhabitants of the neighbourhood the not 

 too complimentary name of &quot; Satan s king 

 dom.&quot; 



Here and there still glows a brilliant 



