FOOTPATHS 



of the land; the rill of life that finds its way there 

 must have a perennial source, and flow there to- 

 morrow and the next day and the next century. 



When I was a youth and went to school with my 

 brothers, we had a footpath a mile long. On going 

 from home after leaving the highway there was a 

 descent through a meadow, then through a large 

 maple and beech wood, then through a long stretch 

 of rather barren pasture land which brought us to 

 the creek in the valley, which we crossed on a slab 

 or a couple of rails from the near fence; then more 

 meadow land with a neglected orchard, and then 

 the little gray schoolhouse itself toeing the highway. 

 In winter our course was a hard, beaten path in 

 the snow visible from afar, and in summer a well- 

 defined trail. In the woods it wore the roots of 

 the trees. It steered for the gaps or low places 

 in the fences, and avoided the bogs and swamps in 

 the meadow. I can recall yet the very look, the very 

 physiognomy of a large birch-tree that stood beside 

 it in the midst of the woods; it sometimes tripped 

 me up with a large root it sent out like a foot. 

 Neither do I forget the little spring run near by, 

 where we frequently paused to drink, and to gather 

 " crinkle- root " (Dentaria) in the early summer; 

 nor the dilapidated log fence that was the high- 

 way of the squirrels ; nor the ledges to one side, 

 whence in early spring the skunk and coon sallied 

 forth and crossed our path; nor the gray, scabby 

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