THE YELLOW VALLEY 45 



notes quite so far. They are meant, I feel 

 sure, to be hearkened to in quietness of spirit, 

 to be tasted delicately, as one would a wine. 

 The life of the opera-glassed bird hunter, com 

 pared to mine, seems to me like the experi 

 ence of a tea-taster compared to that of one 

 who sits in cozy and irresponsible enjoyment 

 of the cup her friend hands her. 



And so there always comes a time in the 

 spring when I must go to my Yellow Valley. 

 A car ride, a walk on through plain little sub 

 urbs, a scramble across fields to a seldom-used 

 railway track, a swing out along the ties, then 

 off across more fields, over a little ridge, and 

 there! Oh, the soft glory of color! We are 

 at the west end of a miniature valley, full of 

 afternoon sunlight slanting across a level blur 

 of yellows and browns. On one side low brown 

 hills enfold it, on the other runs a swift little 

 river, whose steep farther bank is overhung 

 with hemlocks and laurel in brightening spring 

 green. It is a very tiny valley, one could 

 almost throw a stone across it, and the 

 whole bottom is filled with waving grass, 

 waist-high, of a wonderful pale straw color; 

 last year s grass, which the winter snows 



