A BUTTERFLY CHASE 



pine growing on the level, eighty or 

 ninety feet below. I know many termi- 

 nal moraines in New England; but I 

 know no other at once so high and so 

 abrupt in its declivity. A few rods back 

 from its summit the trolley car clangs 

 incessantly, and the speed-mad automo- 

 bilist tears hooting through. 



Along the crest, in spite of this, sleep 

 peacefully the forefathers of the hamlet. 

 I like to feel that they neither note nor 

 heed the uproar of the highway ; that they 

 now and then cock a pleased ear to the 

 rumble of a passing hay-cart or the jog 

 of a farmer's horse, but that the bed- 

 lam of modern hurry whangs by them 

 unperceived. Rather they turn their 

 faces to the sough of the summer winds 

 in the century-old pines which shade the 

 steep and sleep on, happy in the bene- 

 diction that descends from the spreading 

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