UPLAND PASTURES 9 



haps the most lively in our northern latitudes. As the 

 sun strikes in upon them, and upon the moist, rich 

 young grass of the meadow, they make a vivid screen 

 about this lonely glade, a screen of sharp white and 

 translucent foliage, and all up the mountain, amid the 

 bare, lilac trunks of the second-growth timber, you 

 can see the birch green shimmering in the golden light. 

 The birches are never so virginal as in their ^bright, 

 diaphanous robes of Spring, and no scene for me has 

 quite the delicate beauty of the Upper Meadow at that 

 hour. 



But when the forest foliage has melted into the lush 

 monotony of midsummer, the meadow grass is high and 

 ripe, the thrushes have almost ceased their woodland 

 songs, and the laurel bushes on the borders of the clear- 

 ing have dropped their clustered petals of pink and 

 white, a sound comes to you as you climb through the 

 woods which contrasts oddly with the sylvan stillness 

 the hot click-click-click of a mower. As you emerge in- 

 to the Upper Meadow you see half the grass lying low, 

 and against the upstanding edge, eating it down, ad- 

 vances the machine, behind the strong, willing breasts 

 of the brown horses glistening with sweat. Man has 

 made his annual invasion. Under the shade of a bush 

 stands a brown jug of barley water. Out in the sun 

 stands the rake, awaiting its turn. In a day or two 

 the great wagon will come and carry down the hay, 

 leaving the meadow once more to the birds and moun- 



