158 GREEN TRAILS AND UPLAND PASTURES 



The old covered bridge belonged to a New England that 

 is too rapidly vanishing to the age of the travelling 

 circus and the carry-all and first-growth timber and 

 "old-fashioned snowstorms." A motor looks as out of 

 place in one as the one-hoss shay on Fifth Avenue. 



We all, I suppose, have cur favourite and familiar 

 little bridges memories of childhood, summer pos- 

 sessions, or, perhaps, enjoyed the year through. There 

 used to be a bridge on the way to my grandfather's 

 house which always filled me with joy, because upon it I 

 caught the first sight of the stream which was to give me 

 a month of unalloyed delight a pretty glimpse, with a 

 curve of the river on one side and on the other the dark, 

 glossy millpond, green with lily pads, and the gray mill 

 with its gigantic pile of fragrant sawdust beyond. This 

 little bridge was of a well-recognized type wooden 

 string pieces set from stone piers built out on either 

 bank, with a rough and picturesque railing of poles 

 upon which you leaned to look down into the water, or 

 to fish. The loose planking rattled, and I remember 

 vividly the delightful sensation of rowing under the 

 bridge into the shadow, on a hot summer day, and 

 waiting there till a team passed overhead, to see the dust 

 sift down through the chinks, golden, perhaps, in a ray 

 of sunlight, and to hear its soft, almost bell-like tinkle 

 on the water. The fact that the people in the team 

 overhead didn't know we were under the bridge lent an 

 added zest to the adventure. 



