26 



PASTORAL DAYS. 



them around the field, and that same troop of hens and turkeys revel in 

 the lively feast spread out before them in the loose upturning. 



So runs the record of a busy day in the early New England spring- 

 time, and with its all-absorbing industry it is a day that passes quickly. 

 The afternoon runs into evening. Cool shadows creep across the land- 

 scape as the glowing sun sinks through the still bare and leafless trees 

 and disappears behind the wooded hills. The fields are now deserted, 

 and through the uncertain twilight we see the little knots of workmen 

 with their swinging pails, and hear their tramp along the homeward road. 

 In the dim shadows of the evergreens beyond, a faint gray object steals 

 into view. Now it stops at the old watering-trough, and I hear the sip of 



RETURN FROM THE FIELDS. 



the eager horse and the splash of overflowing water. Some belated 

 ploughman, fresh, perhaps, from a half-hour's gossip at the village store. 

 I hear the sound of hoofs upon the stones as they renew their way, the 

 dragging of the chain upon the gravelly bed, and the receding form is lost 

 in the darkening road. One by one the scattered barns and houses have 

 disappeared in the gathering dusk, marked only by the faint columns of 

 blue smoke that rise above the trees, and melt away against the twilight 

 sky. I look out upon a wilderness of gloom, where all above is still and 

 clear, and all below is wrapped in impenetrable mystery. A plaintive pip- 

 ing trill now breaks the impressive stillness. Again and again I hear the 

 little lonely voice vibrating through the low-lying mist. It is only a little 

 frog in some far-off marsh ; but what a sweet sense of sadness is awa- 

 kened by that lowly melody ! How its weird minor key, with its magic 



