A MOUNTAIN RIVULET. 47 



broad aisle of the village street, arched by the 

 venerable trees of an older generation, I seemed to 

 be in dreamland ; no sound broke the repose of 

 midday, no footstep echoed far or near ; the cattle 

 stood motionless in the fields beneath the shelter 

 ing branches. I turned into the dusty country 

 road, and saw the vision of the glj;at encircling 

 hills, remote, shadowless, and dreamlike, against 

 the white August sky. I sauntered slowly on, 

 pausing here and there at the foot of some sturdy 

 oak or wide-branched apple, until I reached the 

 little stream that comes rippling down from the 

 mountain glen. A short walk across the fields 

 under the burning sun brought me into the shadow 

 of the trees that skirt the borders of the woodland. 

 The brook loitered between its green and sloping 

 banks and broke in tiny billows over the smooth 

 stones that lay in its bed ; the shadows grew denser 

 as I advanced, and a delicious coolness from the 

 depths of the woods touched the sultry atmosphere. 

 A moment later, and I stood within the glen. The 

 world of human activity had vanished, shut out of 

 sight and sound by the deepening foliage of the 

 trees behind me. Overhead hardly a leaf stirred, 

 but the branching boughs spread a marvelous roof 

 between the heavens and the woodland paths, and 

 suffered only a stray flash of light here and there 

 to strike through. As I advanced slowly along the 

 well-worn path beside the brook, the glen grew 

 more and more narrow, the hillsides more and 



