24 PASTORAL DAYS. 



ety red saw -mill gone to pieces clown the stream. Farmer Nathan's 

 barn had gone, and his flat meadows were like a whirling sea, strewn 

 with floating rails and driftwood. Every hour records its new disaster 

 as some eao-er messenger returns from the excited crowds which line 

 the river-bank. How well I remember the fascinating excitement of the 

 spring freshet as I watched the rising water in the big swamp lot, anx- 

 ious lest it might creep up and undermine the wall foundations of the 

 barn ! And what a royal raft I made from the drifting logs and beams, 

 and with the spirit of an adventurous explorer sailed out on the deep 

 gliding current, floating high among the branches of the half submerged 

 willow-trees, and scraping over the tips of the tallest alder-bushes, whose 

 highest twigs now hardly reached the surface ! How deep and dark the 

 water looked as I lay upon the raft and peered into the depths below ! 

 But this jolly fun was of but short duration. The flood soon subsided, 

 and on the following morning nothing was seen excepting the settlings 

 of debris strewn helter-skelter over the meadow, and hanging on all the 

 bushes. 



The tepid rain has penetrated deep into the yielding ground, and 

 with the winter's frost now coming to the surface, the roads are well-nigh 

 impassable with their plethora of mud. For a full appreciation of mud 

 in all its glory, and in its superlative degree, one should see a New Eng- 

 land highway " when the frost comes out of the ground." The roads are 

 furrowed with deep grimy ruts, in which the bedabbled wheels sink to 

 their hubs as in a quicksand, and the hoofs of the floundering horse are 

 held in the swampy depths as if in a vise. For a week or more this 

 state of things continues, until at length, after warm winds and sunny 

 days, the ground once more packs firm beneath the tread. This marks 

 the close of idle days. The junk pile in the barn is invaded, and the 

 rusty plough abstracted from the midst of rakes and scythes and other 

 farming tools. The old white horse thrusts his long head from the stall 

 near by, and whinnies at the memories it revives, and with pricked-up 

 ears and whisking tail tells plainly of the eagerness he feels. 



Back and forth through the sloping lot the ploughman slowly turns 

 the clingy sward, and in the rich brown furrow, following in his track, 

 we see the cackling troop of hens, and the lordly rooster, with great 

 ado, searches out the dainty tidbits for his motley crowd of favorites. 

 The whole landscape has become infused with human life and motion. 

 Wherever the eye may turn it sees the evidences of varied and hopeful 



