A NEW PLACE TO LOAF. 47 



haps ; but even the sweet-scented vernal grass 

 that yearly adds its charm to a single corner of 

 one field seemed stored in the dark loft. It mat- 

 ters not ; that corner, with its wealth of bright 

 blossoms, the glittering sunshine of May's per- 

 fect mornings, the song of nesting thrushes, and 

 the rose-throated grosbeak's matchless song, 

 were plainly seen and heard. It mattered not 

 that it was January instead of June, and the 

 shrill north wind whispered its well-nigh forgot- 

 ten warnings summer reigned in the hay-mow. 

 The noontide glare that webbed the dark with 

 trembling threads of light aided my fancy, and I 

 reveled in day-dreams. 



That was a painful pleasure when the past 

 was measured, and forty years marked off the 

 distance between my first visit and the present. 

 Would life have appeared as rosy-hued could I 

 have looked as far forward as unto to-day ? Per- 

 haps not. And what of the retrospective glances 

 that dimly discern the timid child floundering 

 then in the half-filled mow ? With what won- 

 der were the darting swallows marked as they 

 sped to their nests upon the rafters, and then 

 fled through a gaping chink to the outer world ! 

 What mystery shrouded the hastening mice that 

 ran across the mow's wide window-sill, squeaked 

 as they met, and hurried on their way ! Why 

 would they not stop and speak to the little child ? 



