8 4 



PASTORAL DAYS. 



to a lovely valley its usefulness and beauty. Turning in another direc- 

 tion, we pass the Snuggery ball -ground, animated with the shouts of 



victory ; and descending into a 

 \" ' - vale of almost primeval wild- 

 ness, we continue our way up the 

 ascent of "Artist's Hill," from whose 

 summit on every side, as far as the eye 

 can reach, the landscape softens into the 

 horizon. Returning, we pass through a 

 : , { -, -■ "'•;. "' ruined waste, where, three months before, the fierce 

 {!:-, tornado swooped down in its fiendish fury. On every 



side we see its awful evidences. Huge oaks, like brittle 

 pipe-stems, snapped from their moorings ; sturdy hickories, mere play- 

 things in the gale, twisted into shreds. 



Every morning saw me on some new drive, either with a wagon full 

 of merry company, or as alone with Mr. Snug we held our quiet tt-tc-a-ttte 

 on wheels, living over the olden times. In the afternoon I strolled by 

 myself through the old and eloquent scenes. A volume could not hold 

 the memories they revived — no, not even those of yonder barn alone. 

 Even as I sit making my pencil-sketch, its reminiscences seem to float 

 across the vision. Distinctly it recalls the events of one evening years 

 ago. It was at about the sunset hour one Friday. I was quietly sitting 

 on a lounge in the parlor talking to Cuthbert Harding, who was stand- 

 ing in front of me. Presently the door opens, and the tall figure of Dick 



