FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 79 



Hark ! tis the birds that blithely are singing 



Thanks for the sunny hours ! 

 Hark ! tis the busy bees that are clinging 



Round the just op ning flowers! 

 Busy and cheerful workers are ye! 

 What is your secret, bird and bee? 



My neighbours are raking the dry leaves 

 from their lawns, and putting their gar 

 dens in order ; the road-makers are abroad, 

 spreading soft mould over the driveways, 

 to provide deep mudholcs to burrow in 

 when the rain comes ; the farmers are busy 

 in the fields preparing for the early crops. 

 And even upon that portion of my &quot;moun 

 tain meadow &quot; which I design for a garden 

 and orchard, the plough has been turning the 

 rich soil up to the sun to be aired and sweet 

 ened, and what here and there appear to be 

 only arbitrary pitfalls for the unwary are 

 the destined homes of apple and peach and 

 pear and cherry and plum and quince and 

 apricot ; and elsewhere, of the elm tree 

 and the white birch. 



I wonder if the latter, which so gener 

 ously clothes the neglected and forgotten 

 fields, and which mounts the rough edge 

 of the deserted gravel pit and plants its 

 little cohorts upon the scarred hillside, will 

 form as graceful a cluster at my bidding, to 



