21 8 FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 



lating mountain meadow is being ploughed 

 up after many years rest, shortly to be 

 seeded down again to grass for firm sod and 

 mowing. If all goes well, I should next June 

 look from the triple window in my living 

 room across a smooth, unbroken sea of wav 

 ing spires to the line of the southern hills, 

 cut only by the elm and locust trees upon 

 the roadside five hundred feet away. 



The katydids are here. Only for two 

 evenings have I noticed them, but during 

 those two, they have filled the air with the 

 iteration of their calls. With the same per 

 sistence as a year ago, they keep up the 

 charge and denial, appearing in fact to have 

 gained force and volume during the year 

 that has passed. 



The days grow shorter, and it seems as if 

 the fall were fast approaching. The sky 

 is overcast, and after the heat of July the 

 air seems chill, and a grateful fire smoulders 

 upon the hearth at the inn. But the burn 

 ing sun will doubtless scorch us yet for 

 many days, ere the woods turn scarlet and 

 brown and gold, and the wanderers return 

 from their journeyings. 



AUGUST 12, 1894. 



