AN OLD-STYLE FARM. 17 



out its snowy burden of blossoms from the edges of 

 the wood ; the oaks showed their velvety tufts, and 

 with midsummer there was a world of green and of 

 silence broken only by an occasional " Gee, Bright ! " 

 of the teamster, or the cluck of a matronly hen, or 

 hum of bees, or the murmur of the brook. All this 

 inviting to a very dreamy indolence, which, I must 

 confess, was somehow vastly enjoyable. 



Nothing to see ? Lo, the play of light and shade 

 over the distant hills, or the wind, making tossed and 

 streaming wavelets on the rye. Nothing to hear ? 

 Wait a moment and you shall listen to the bursting 

 melodious roundelay of the merriest singer upon 

 earth the black and white coated Bob-o'-Lincoln, as 

 he rises on easy wing, floats in the sunshine, and 

 overflows with song, then sinks, as if exhausted by 

 his brilliant solo, to some swaying twig of the alder 

 bushes. Nothing to hope ? The maize leaves through 

 all their close serried ranks are rustling with the 

 promise of golden corn. Nothing to conquer ? There 

 are the brambles, the roughnesses, the inequalities, 

 the chill damp earth, the whole teeming swamp-land. 



I have tried to outline the surroundings and ap- 

 pointments of many a back country farmer of New 

 England to-day. I am sure the drawing is true, 

 because it is from the life. I seem to see such an one 

 now on one of those May mornings an hour before 



