288 FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 



I came out at length upon the top of the 

 bridge, whence its imposing height is more 

 clearly discerned. The stream beneath 

 has suffered greatly from the long drought. 

 When it is full, as during the breaking up 

 of the accumulated snows of the winter, 

 the view must be most effective from this 

 point. 



Here I parted from a chance travelling 

 acquaintance, and struck off into a bypath 

 through the woods, trusting that it would 

 ultimately lead me to an easy slope by 

 which I might make my descent again to 

 the bed of the stream, and in this I was 

 not mistaken. And so, following now the 

 conventional path, now stepping or spring 

 ing from rock to rock in the bed of the 

 creek, and now pushing my way among 

 trees and bushes, I at last find myself 

 alone in the fading evening light under 

 the bridge itself, with no sound in my ears 

 but that of the water as it makes its way 

 over its irregular rocky bed. 



It is good to be here, good to look up 

 at that vast arch with the pictures of which 

 we have all been so familiar from child 

 hood, but which so few of us see or think 

 that we much care to see. Let me tell you 

 to go to see it, and also to do what I cannot 



