SUMMER. 75 



fences, and their clumps of purple-berried poke- weed, with here and there 

 a yellow patch of toad -flax, and aromatic tufts of tansy hugging close 

 against the fence. Even that clambering screen of clematis that trails 

 over the shrubbery yonder cannot hide the scattered tips of crimson that 

 already have appeared among the sumach leaves. 



There are a thousand things one meets upon a country ride or ram- 

 ble which at the time are allowed to pass with but a glance. The eye 

 is surfeited and the mind confused with the continual pageantry. But 

 months afterward, in the reveries about our winter fires, they all come 

 back to us, with the added charm of reminiscence ; and whether it be a 

 crystal spring among a bank of ferns, or a thistle-top with its fluttering 

 butterfly and inevitable bumblebee rolling in the tufted blossom, or a 

 squirrel running along a rail, or perhaps a rattling grasshopper hovering 

 in mid-air above the dusty road — no matter what, they all are welcome 

 memories at our fireside, and draw our hearts still closer to the loveliness 

 of nature. 



This Housatonic road is rich in just such pastoral pictures. Two 

 hours on such a course soon pass, when our pony whinnies at the wel- 

 come sight of the old log water-trough beyond — a landmark old and 

 green when I was yet a boy, still nestling in its rocky bed, shadowed by 

 the drooping hemlocks, still lavish with its overflowing bounty. 



This benefactor by the way-side marks a turning-point in our jour- 

 ney, as we leave the grandeur of the Housatonic to pursue our way by 

 the nooks and dingles of the wild Shepaug — a bubbling tributary whose 

 happy waters sing of a varied experience. Now placid through the 

 blossoming fields, now plunging down the precipice to ripple through a 

 verdant valley, where, hemmed in at every turn, it seeks its only liberty 

 beneath the rumbling of the old mill-wheels ; and at last, ere it loses its 

 identity in the swelling tide, leaving a mischievous and tumultuous record 

 as it pours through the rocky cailon, and with surging, whirling volume 

 carves huge caverns and fantastic statues in its massive bed of stone. 

 Even now through the dark forest beyond we can hear the muffled roar, 

 and for nearly a league farther as we ascend the long hill it comes to us 

 in fitful whispers wafted on the changing breeze. Reaching the summit 

 of this incline, we find ourselves on a hill-top wide and far-reaching, on 

 right and left losing itself in wooded wold, while in front the level road 

 diminishes to a point, surmounted by blue hills in the distance. Two 

 miles on a pastoral hill-top, where golden-rod and tall spiraeas cluster 



