1 1 2 Bo^-Trotting for Orchids 



were turning brown, and the leaves curling up on their 

 edges. Through the trembling haze, partially due to 

 the vile smoke of civilization, which arose from the 

 various factories in the City, the sun appeared as a 

 round, red ball of fire. 



I had chosen a poor day for walking, but there were 

 cool, shady retreats on the way, where I could find rest 

 and shelter. I clambered down from the slopes of 

 Aurora's Hill, into the shadow of the valley's smoke, 

 crossing the sluggish stream of the Ashuilticook, by 

 way of the iron bridge in Flag's Meadows. I climbed 

 to the swamps along the Ragged Hills leading to The 

 Notch. Here the slopes of pasture-lands above State 

 Street are clothed with bushes and brambles, through 

 which rough, stony paths wind, where dwell the chil- 

 dren of sunny Italy. Witt's I,edge of lime and marble 

 stone lies along this swell. These rough paths, with 

 wooden steps leading summitward, were new to me. 



Upon the brow of the hill was a small pond hidden 

 at the head of an extensive swamp, amid willows and 

 lush tangled grasses, where little lads were bathing. 

 It was one of those wild mountainous pasture-lands 

 where blackberry briars and sweet-fern run riot, and 

 where the pepper-bushes and tall brakes shed forth an 

 aromatic perfume under the full blaze of the summer 

 sun. About the drier portions of the swamp were 

 well-worn cow-paths, winding irregularly about the 

 hummocks and boulders; and along the borders grew 

 many familiar weeds and vines amid the swails and 

 flags. 



