218 THE OPEN AIR. 



and brought out its pale yellow-green flowers in the 

 sombre boughs. Last night, a great fly, the last 

 in the house, buzzed into my candle. I detest flies, 

 but I was sorry for his scorched wings ; the fly itself 

 hateful, its wings so beautifully made. I have some- 

 times picked a feather from the dirt of the road and 

 placed it on the grass. It is contrary to one's feelings 

 to see so beautiful a thing lying in the mud. Towards 

 my window now, as I write, there comes suddenly a 

 shower of yellow leaves, wrested out by main force 

 from the high elms ; the blue sky behind them, they 

 droop slowly, borne onward, twirling, fluttering to- 

 wards me a cloud of autumn butterflies. 



A spring rises on the summit of a green brow that 

 overlooks the meadows for miles. The spot is not 

 really very high, still it is the highest ground in that 

 direction for a long distance, and it seems singular 

 to find water on the top of the hill, a thing common 

 enough, but still sufficiently opposed to general im- 

 pressions to appear remarkable. In this shallow 

 water, says a faint story far off, faint, and uncertain, 

 like the murmur of a distant cascade two ladies and 

 some soldiers lost their lives. The brow is defended 

 by thick bramble-bushes, which bore a fine crop of 

 blackberries that autumn, to the delight of the boys ; 

 and these bushes partly conceal the sharpness of the 

 short descent. But once your attention is drawn to 

 it, you see that it has all the appearance of having 

 been artificially sloped, like a rampart, or rather 

 a glacis. The grass is green and the sward soft, 

 being moistened by the spring, except in one spot, 

 where the grass is burnt up under the heat of the 



