36 FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 



paths that the snow spreads a spotless, 

 unbroken sheet. On the open fields and 

 pastures it is broken by the stems of the 

 wild roses, bearing their brilliant red hips, 

 the hardhack, the wild carrot which lills 

 its cup with it, the fluffy seed-plumes of 

 the golden-rods. The branches of the trees 

 soon shake off its downy flakes, and, look 

 ing athwart the landscape, the pure white 

 spaces form but a minor part of the whole- 

 scene, broken by house and fence and 

 woodland, which are clearly outlined against 

 its whiteness. 



Clear as the air is, the sun shining from 

 a cloudless sky, the valley stretching away 

 at my feet in the afternoon becomes suffused 

 with mystic light as of Indian summer, and 

 as the day advances, the distant hills seem 

 to float in a warm haze in which they fade 

 away, carrying the eye to the limit of vision, 

 and leaving it fixed upon the glow which 

 shrouds but glorifies the far horizon. 



Near by, the village spire is bathed in 

 the fading light ; no I should not say fad 

 ing light, for the sun is still above the 

 horizon, and the spire stands out clearly 

 against the sky. But it is the reverse of 

 Wordsworth s fading &quot; into the light of 

 common day,&quot; it is rather, as it were.- 



