no LITERARY PILGRIMAGES 



know it, for they have paled to a wan, tan brown, 

 as delicately beautiful as you shall find on any 

 auturnn-tinted tree of the forest. The woodbine 

 is a deep, rich red, and the poison ivy that helps it 

 garland the old walls has ripened its leaves to the 

 loveliest apple reds and yellows that can be found. 

 There are sweeter-natured things than this poison 

 ivy which beautifies old walls and fences at this 

 time of year, but nothing that gives us quite such 

 softly delectable tints of ripeness. It seems as 

 if these ought to tempt us from the cheek of some 

 rarely palatable fruit rather than the poisonous 

 leaf of this vixenish vine. 



" The wide-spreading pond and the mill that 

 stood by it " have long since done their work and 

 the mill of Woodworth's day has passed. Yet the 

 pond remains in all respects as he knew it, the 

 deep tangled wildwood lining its one shore, the 

 road and a fringe of houses skirting the other, and 

 below it another mill, long since fallen into disuse 

 and decay, for the one that Woodworth recalled 

 was a product of the century before the last one. 

 Over the stones of the old dam the water trickles 

 down and meets the salt tides of the sea, and here 



