A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



and naked, the mountains so exposed and 

 rigid, that the eye falls upon the blue, 

 sparkling, undulating watercourses with a 

 peculiar satisfaction. By and by the grass 

 and trees will be waving, and the streams 

 will be shrunken and hidden, and our de- 

 light will not be in them. The still ponds 

 and lakelets will then please us more. 



The little brown brooks, — how swift and 

 full they ran ! One fancied something glee- 

 ful and hilarious in them. And the large 

 creeks, — how steadily they rolled on, trail- 

 ing their ample skirts along the edges of 

 the fields and marshes, and leaving ragged 

 patches of water here and there ! Many 

 a gentle slope spread, as it were, a turfy 

 apron in which reposed a little pool or lake- 

 let. Many a stream sent little detachments 

 across lots, the sparkling water seeming to 

 trip lightly over the unbroken turf. Here 

 and there an oak or an elm stood knee-deep 

 in a clear pool, as if rising from its bath. 

 It gives one a fresh, genial feeling to see 

 such a bountiful supply of pure, running 

 water. One's desires and affinities go out 

 toward the full streams. How many a 

 parched place they reach and lap in one's 

 memory ! How many a vision of naked 



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