The Rescue of an Old Place 



A flight of geese is heard, the first deep tone in the 

 knell of dying summer. Now and then 

 a white flight of gulls comes up from the 

 harbor searching for fish, pouncing down 

 behind the grass after some luckless perch 

 in the water. The shadows of the dis- 

 tant Oaks are darkest blue, and some 

 far-off Elms fleck the front of an orange- 

 colored cottage and subdue it to harmony. 

 The gray roofs and red chimneys of the 

 distant houses and barns, half-buried in 

 foliage, seem an essential of the picture, 

 giving it that touch of humanness without 

 which a landscape lacks its final charm. 

 The veranda rail, with its drapery of Wood- 

 bine, gives a strong accent that brings out 

 the values of the middle distance, while 

 the tops of two old Apple-trees, laden with 

 fruit, make a pleasing curve in contrast to 

 the level lines of the party-colored marsh, 

 elsewhere broken by the ashy-green foli- 

 age of some graceful Willows across the 

 invisible road. 



So much, at least, our landscape gar- 

 dening has accomplished ; the ugly line 

 which killed our predecessor has been 

 obliterated by our border-plantation, and, 

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