SLSSPT HOLLOW 43 



the dawning grow, who through hot noons has lingered 

 in the orchard shade, seen twilight shadows deepen in 

 the valley, who knows in spring-time where the violets 

 bloom and robins build, who has reaped the harvest of 

 its summer days, and knows where vipers bask and 

 nightjars haunt, who has found on its brown slopes the 

 quiet autumn flowers, has traced upon the snow the 

 footprints of its populace, the memories of thirty years 

 have left a record on each sunny bank, a tradition in the 

 very brambles of the hedge-row, a legend in the caverns 

 of each ancient elm. For him there is no path but leads 

 his fancy down the vanished years, there is no lane 

 without its phantoms, no tree without its ghost, 



" No quiet nook but treasures up 

 Some memory fond and true." 



A touch of north is in the wind that tosses the dark 

 foliage of the old Scotch firs with a sound as of the 

 sea ; but the hawthorn hedge is broad and strong, and, 

 on the warm slope below, the air is hardly stirring. A 

 dreamy haze broods over the cliffs along the hill, deepening 

 the shadows of their cavernous clefts and softening the 

 stern outlines of their nigged steeps. Against the farther 

 ranges hangs a soft grey vapour, on which the tender 

 green of young elm leafage is drawn in clear, cool tones. 

 The cattle on the opposite side of the valley are drowsing 

 in the heat, and at times rush madly down the slope to 

 seek solace at the well below. A party of finches 

 splashing in the brook that wanders from the spring pay 

 little heed to the sounds of galloping feet upon the turf, 



