A GREEN MOUNTAIN CORN-FIELD. 113 



would pass his days more happily than 

 many a so-called favorite of fortune. 



On my way back to the inn I met an old 

 man from the lowlands, driving over the 

 mountains for the first time since boyhood. 

 " You have a pretty good farming country 

 here," he called out cheerily, "a little 

 rolling." He took me for a native, and I 

 hope to be forgiven for not disclaiming the 

 compliment. 



As I write, I find myself wondering how 

 my nameless farmer's crop is prospered. 

 In my corner of the world we have lately 

 been afflicted with drought. I hope it has 

 been otherwise on his hillside plateau. In 

 my thought, at all events, his corn is now 

 fully tasseled, and waves in a pleasant 

 mountain wind, all green and shining. 



