UPLAND PASTURES 7 



on gray days when sky and rocks are of a colour. Some- 

 times they wander still higher into the summit woods, 

 and as you make your way up toward the peak of the 

 mountain you will hear their bells tinkling unseen. 

 From the doorstep of his house the farmer can look 

 down upon our village. On still Sabbath mornings 

 he can hear the call from the church steeples, and at 

 night, perhaps, the boom of the hours. Yet he dwells 

 strangely in a world apart, like one on a watch-tower. 

 His son, to be sure, in fine weather can reach school on a 

 bicycle (at no little personal risk) in an incredibly short 

 time. But it is slow work getting home again. Once 

 home for the evening, it must be a strong temptation 

 indeed to draw the inhabitants of this house down to 

 those twinkling lights of the town. They look out 

 upon our habitations, but they hear only the rushing 

 of the night wind over the mountain or the muffled 

 tinkle of a cow-bell as the herd moves to a new pasturage 

 under the stars. To such a farm might Teufelsdrockh 

 have retired. 



I have never been able to decide in what season of the 

 year the Upper Meadow is at its best, for in each it has 

 a shy, elusive charm peculiarly its own. The Lower 

 Meadow, through which it is reached, is a link between 

 one of the largest farms and the extensive swamp which 

 lies at the steep side of a mountain. This meadow, 

 or hayfield, is many acres in extend, threaded by a slow- 

 moving, alder-fringed brook. On the farther side, 



