4 FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 



recall the spring fragrance of the blossom 

 ing vines, which vie with the ground-nut 

 (Apios) of later summer in making scented 

 aisles of our pathways. The berries of 

 the bitter-sweet hang in golden clusters, 

 but have not yet opened their hearts to the 

 breeze, and the red hips of the wild roses 

 promise to be with us all winter. Under 

 the trees the berries of the mitchella are 

 scattered thickly on the carpet formed by 

 the round green leaves on the vines. 



Our sounds are the sounds of the late 

 harvest, and this is nearly over. The ripe 

 corn is stacked in the fields, revealing gold 

 en pumpkins galore, with certainty of un 

 ending pies, while here and there a blossom 

 shows that the vigour has not yet all gone 

 out of the vines. The birds are mostly 

 quiet, a catbird, with its noisy note, doing 

 most to attract my attention during my 

 morning walk. We shall see and hear 

 more of the birds, but the cheery songs 

 will only come to us again with the opening 

 spring. 



From my window I can hear the katy 

 did s iteration all day long, that terrible 

 insistence, with the counter denial, which 

 make you feel so sure that, whatever it 

 was that was done or was not done in the 



