318 NATURAL HISTORY OF THE FARM 
summit, and these grew and spilled over and poured down the 
slope to the very roadside, where they remain to this day in 
charming confusion. And year after year the bank is flecked 
with the pink of the roses in summer and dappled with the 
blue of the asters in autumn. 
We pass under a great oak that stretches its long horizontal 
boughs across our way, holding out flat canopies of leaves, 
whose shadows run waveringly over the dust of the road. 
We round the top of the little hill, where the view opens out 
across a valley with a strip of sparkling water. Wedescenda 
gentle slope and come upon a low-lying meadow, bordered 
with great masses of golden-rod and elder. We cross a 
bridge, almost without seeing it; for it is the sort of bridge 
our fathers builded, a bridge of gray stone taken from the hill- 
side ledge: a broad and solid bridge built to stand while the 
till runs beneath it. The rill is hidden by herbage, but we 
hear its gurgling. What was once a rubbish-heap below, is 
now a blossomy mass of verdure, with virgin’s-bower and 
morning-glories running riot over it. Across the meadow lie 
the shadows of tree-forms cast from the hill behind us, and 
beyond the meadow rises a steep tree-clad slope, with the 
tessellated sprays of beech and the rounded crowns of the 
maple mingled and rising like billows to the ridge. There, a 
few white pines stand out like sentinels. While we are look- 
ing at the spreading herbs beneath the trees, our road turns 
again to pass around the hill. 
So, it leads us on, with its promises of ever-new and charm- 
ing pictures. Its vistas, disclosed at every turn, are not 
more satisfying than are its sweet miniatures, seen near at 
hand. ‘These are the ripe results of many years of nature’s 
handiwork. Every nook and corner is planted with verdure 
of incomparable design. 
This is not a road to race over, seeing nothing. No; it 
must be travelled slowly, and a bit reverently, if one would 
