20 GREEN TRAILS AND UPLAND PASTURES 



in a fir-tree top, and all the zenith blazes. How patient 

 they are, the stars! How slow-moving, how unalter- 

 able ! You are very small, beneath this coverlet of the 

 Milky Way, and to your mind come back the words 

 from Tuckerman's sonnet he whose son built the path 

 to the peak beyond: 



And what canst thou, to whom no hands belong, 

 To hasten by one hour the morning's birth? 



Or stay one planet at his circle hung, 



In the great flight of stars across the earth? 



It is good to feel such humbleness amid the solemnity 

 of the heights. But it is good, as well, to feel still the 

 fragrant warmth of the balsams keeping off the wind, to 

 listen quietly while a little bird close by wakes with a 

 sweet cheep and rustles to another perch, and to hear, 

 for good-night lullaby, the distant, drowsy tinkle of a 

 cow-bell, as the herd, turned loose again after milking, 

 make their way slowly back to their upland pasture. 



