44 FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 



the artist, qualified only by the proviso, 

 that he must always see something fine, 

 beautiful, ennobling, or helpful. 



But I was climbing the hillside through 

 the fast-falling flakes. Crossing the crest 

 of the ridge between the files of hooded 

 cedars, standing 



Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, 



the road wanders down across a lateral 

 valley through which runs the &quot;Great 

 Brook,&quot; then climbs the hill beyond, 

 sinks into another valley, and toils up 

 through the closer wood towards the top 

 of the ridge. At the crossroads I stop and 

 hearken. There is no wind, and not a sound 

 breaks the silence excepting the soft alight 

 ing of the snow, and the dull rumble of a 

 train of cars upon a railroad five or six 

 miles away. As I listen, the latter fades 

 in the distance beyond the hills to a scarcely 

 perceptible murmur, and nothing is left but 

 the sound of the falling flakes, now grad 

 ually changing to sleet, and beginning to 

 make a Liliputian rattling upon the crisp 

 leaves of the oaks and beeches. Between 

 the trunks and branches of the trees my 

 eye wanders down into the valley ; the 

 woodlands, the fields, and the lines of wall 



