BARE HILLS IN MIDWINTER 



have crumbled a little and given a better 

 foothold of black soil. 



Strange to say, the purple wood-grass 

 that surely loves sandy plains best has 

 sent little scouting parties up with the 

 hickories, and here and there occupies 

 tiny plateaus among the ledges well up 

 toward the ridge, often rimmed round 

 with the purplish green of the mountain 

 cranberry. At the bottom of the gullies 

 the maples began the climb, but they did 

 not last long. Red and white oaks have 

 won farther up, but stopped invariably 

 before the summit of the gully was 

 reached. 



From the beautiful Eliot Memorial 

 Bridge, near the eastern limits of the 

 summit plateau of Blue Hill, you catch 

 a wonderful glimpse southeasterly right 

 down a narrow ravine to a wider valley, 

 and thence down again to a glow of white 

 95 



