HILLSIDE. 



IT is a magnificent morning in July, and I am standing on 

 the highest ridge of the chalk hills, a short distance to the 

 south of Rochester. A cool, refreshing breeze invigorates 

 me ; the clear azure of the sky above is unsullied by a single 

 speck, though on the horizon, to the south-west, a large 

 mass of cumulus, sure presage of a blazing noontide, sails 

 majestically along. Dewdrops still hang here and there 

 from the grass and clover, sparkling with the brilliance of 

 diamonds ; but these soon vanish at the bidding of the early 

 morning sun. 



The climb up the rough and steep road, necessary to reach 

 my present coign of vantage, has made me breathless, and 

 while I rest for a few minutes on this dark green carpet of 

 clover which stretches far away into the distance, a hazy 

 red, clearly discernible like a fine film on its surface, telling 

 that the time of blossoming is not far off, I will invite my 

 readers to gaze with me on the panorama which lies unfolded 

 before my eyes. 



In front of us, in the direction of the road by which I 

 have come, is a fertile valley ; in one part the yellowing 

 corn is ripening under the genial influence of the sun ; in 

 another, dark rough-leaved hops stretch from pole to pole, 

 and at last throw their spiral necks far above into the air, 



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