44 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



completely passed out of mind. Memory, 

 like a sundial, had marked only the bright 

 hour. 



Beyond this lonely barn the soil of the 

 valley becomes drier and sandier. Here are 

 two or three houses, with broad hayfields 

 about them, in which live many vesper spar- 

 rows. No doubt they have lived here longer 

 than any of their present human neighbors. 

 Even now they flit along the wayside in ad- 

 vance of the foot-passenger, running a space, 

 after their manner, and anon taking wing to 

 alight upon a fence rail. Their year is done, 

 but they linger still a few days, out of love 

 for the ancestral fields, or, it may be, in 

 dread of the long journey, from which some 

 of them will pretty certainly never come 

 back. 



All the way up the road, though no men- 

 tion has been made of it, my eyes have been 

 upon the low, bright-colored hills beyond the 

 river, sugar-maple orchards all in yellow 

 and red, a gorgeous display, or upon the 

 mountains in front, Kinsman and the more 

 distant Moosilauke. The green meadow is 

 a good place in which to look for marsh 



