FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 199 



the hot sunlight filters here and there, flick 

 ering pleasantly upon the moving leaves. 

 Before me fall away the gently undulating 

 slopes of the &quot;mountain meadow,&quot; with 

 the poultry-yard between me and the high 

 way, close to the edge of the wood, from 

 which from time to time I hear the cackle 

 of the hens or the crowing of the cocks, 

 some of which, with characteristic curiosity, 

 stray down to the corner nearest to me and 

 watch me at my writing. Were I nearer, I 

 should also hear the pleasant chirping of 

 the downy chicks, now numbering a dozen 

 or more, clustered confidingly around their 

 careful foster-mother. The line of shadow 

 from the woods extends a short distance in 

 front of me ; then comes the open sunny 

 field, from which the hay was recently har 

 vested, now speckled over with the branch 

 ing stems and flat white crowns of the wild 

 carrot ; beyond and slightly to the left, the 

 slender village spire lifts itself against the 

 distant hills, overtopping a curtain of deep 

 green trees. It was of this that Elihu Bur- 

 ritt, &quot; the learned blacksmith,&quot; said, that as 

 he, then a little urchin, looked down upon it 

 from Sunset Rock, he felt as one should do 

 in looking for the first time upon St. Peter s, 

 and thought that if the big rooster (which in 



