Winter Woodsmen Around Boston 



the metropolitan fire bells. At my back was 

 a man cording wood, every noon eating his 

 lunch out of brown paper, and washing it 

 down with brown water from a swamp- 

 draining brook. At my feet lay a city of six 

 hundred thousand inhabitants, one of the 

 greatest sea marts on the American Atlantic 

 Coast, spreading its roofs and spires as far 

 as the eye could reach, and wearing its great 

 industrial cap of smoke like a giant at the 

 forge. Where is the invisible line drawn 

 between city and country? At what point 

 in my walk do I cease to be metropolitan 

 and become rural? What a strange and 

 striking and delightful contrast of environ 

 ments! not to be found elsewhere in the 

 world, perhaps, than about New England's 

 fortunately situated and beautiful capital. 



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