IN OLD CONCORD 101 



as an exclamation of astonishment. As an offset 

 for this I might cite the small boy who, having 

 been shown the stone which marks the grave of 

 Louisa Alcott, gave it shyly a little loving hug 

 and a pat before he went away. In the highest 

 group of Concord immortals it is not customary 

 to include the talented daughter of the transcen- 

 dentalism yet of the worshipers who pass not a 

 few lay their fondest offering on the turf that 

 covers her. 



For a few hours out of the twenty-four, vis- 

 itors to Sleepy Hollow come and go. Except for 

 that the hollow indeed sleeps, steeped in the 

 gentle peace of all nature which seems to well 

 up out of it and encompass all the region round 

 about in its golden haze. Surely the lotos grows 

 where the Assabet and the Sudbury join to make 

 the Concord, that sleeps on so gently that one may 

 hardly know that it is on its way. The lotos 

 grows there and the land has eaten of it, for the 

 bustle of the world passes over it but does not 

 change nor wake it. The very farms of Revo- 

 lutionary time linger on, and if they are tilled 

 now as they were then I do not know, but the 



