Country Roads in August 



along some woods-edge, where the dew is 

 glistening on the leaves and the brakes hang 

 heavy and damp over black loam. Then 

 comes up that magical, entrancing morning 

 odor of the woods into my nostrils, and, 

 presto ! I am a boy again, with alder pole in 

 hand, starting forth to fish the trout-brook 

 in yonder hollow. That delicious matutinal 

 woods-odor is the same the world over ; and 

 you may sate your soul and sense with it, 

 if you are early enough, along any country 

 road in August. There is something about 

 it, I am convinced even for those in whom 

 it does not rouse old memories that is 

 tonic, rejuvenating, freshening. It is a fluid 

 elixir of life. You feel, as you breathe it, 

 good for a hundred-mile tramp, and you 

 vaguely fear lest the country road shall 

 dwindle into a squirrel track and run up a 

 tree long before you are ready to turn 

 around and come back. 



Even yet, so late in the season as Au- 

 gust, you will find some birds singing along 

 the country road, especially in the early 

 morning. There is a peculiar charm about 

 looking and listening for August birds be- 

 cause each lingering songster counts for so 

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