22 GREEN TRAILS AND UPLAND PASTURES 



me, a room with low ceiling and a red cloth on the table. 

 In the corner stands a tall clock, and above the dial face 

 a brig, with all sails set, rocks to the swing of the pen- 

 dulum, upon a painted ocean. Tick-tack, tick-lock 

 very slowly and resonantly the great clock measures the 

 flight of time, and the monotony of it is as a lullaby. 

 The sun pours sleepily in through the western windows, 

 over the pots of red geraniums. On the hearth afire 

 crackles and the cat is asleep on the rag rug before it. 

 Outside, the world is dazzling white at first, but pres- 

 ently it is blue, the same blue as the sky, for the sun is 

 smking and the tail columnar screen of the sugar grove 

 on the hill is chill with shadow. There is steam rising 

 from the muffler of the man driving past in a pung. 

 How cold is the outside world, how still, how buried! 

 Tick-tocky tick-lock the brig rides up and down upon 

 its painted ocean. A log falls with a crackle of sparks 

 and then the flames wallow anew up the great chimney. 

 My eyes close drowsily even now at the memory, to 

 open again to the sound of dishes rattled in the kitchen 

 and the coming of the evening lamps. 



The scene changes, and I stand outside of myself, 

 as it were, and see myself go by down the wind, the 

 spray of blown powder enveloping me to the waist and 

 whitening my shoulder blades. I am a dark little 

 figure in blue "pull-down" cap and navy blue pea- 

 jacket, with a japanned tin lunch box under my arm, 

 a figure as dark as the black cedars beside the road- 



