MY NEIGHBORS FIELD 



the pitiful small shreds the butcher-bird 

 hangs on spiny shrubs. 



It is a still field, this of my neighbor's, 

 though so busy, and admirably com- 

 pounded for variety and pleasantness, 

 a little sand, a little loam, a grassy plot, a 

 stony rise or two, a full brown stream, a 

 little touch of humanness, a footpath trod- 

 den out by moccasins. Naboth expects to 

 make town lots of it and his fortune in 

 one and the same day; but when I take 

 the trail to talk with old Seyavi at the 

 campoodie, it occurs to me that though 

 the field may serve a good turn in those 

 days it will hardly be happier. No, cer- 

 tainly not happier. 



