98 PASTORAL DAYS. 



cut short by an ancient tumbling line of lichen-covered stones, a land- 

 mark which has long since yielded up its claim as a barrier of protec- 

 tion to the old orchard it encloses, now only a moss-grown pile, with 

 every chink and crevice a nestling-place of some searching tendril, fern, 

 or clambering vine. For rods and rods it creeps along beneath the laden 

 apple-trees, skirting the borders of this old farm lane, and finally hides 

 away among a clump of cedars a few hundred feet away. 



Of all the picturesque in nature, what is there, after all, that so wins 

 one's deeper sympathies as the ever-changing pictures of a rustic lane 

 or roadside, with its weather-beaten walls and fences, and their rambling 

 growth of weeds and creeping vines ? How sweet the sense of near com- 

 panionship awakened by these charming way-side pastorals that accom- 

 pany you in your saunterings, and reach out to touch you as you pass— 

 a sense of friendly fellowship that breathes a silent greeting in the most 

 deserted paths or loneliest of by-ways ! 



Show me a ruined wall or a rugged zigzag fence, and I will show 

 you a string of pearls, or rather, if in these later months, a fringe of gems, 

 for the autumn fence is set in wreaths of rubies and glowing sapphires. 

 Follow its rambling course, now through the field, now skirting swampy 

 fallows, now by rustic lanes and cornfields and over rocky pastures, and 

 you will follow a lead that will take you through the rarest bits of nat- 

 ure's autumn landscape. 



Even in this lane, at the foot of the knoll below us, see the brilliant 

 luxuriance of clustered bitter-sweet draping the side of that clump of 

 cedars ! It is only an indication of the beauty that envelops this lane 

 for a full half mile beyond. Every angle of its rude rail fence encloses a 

 lovely pastoral, each a surprise and a contrast to its neighbor. 



Right here before us, what a beginning ! Hold up your hands on 

 either side, and shut out the surroundings. Such is the glimpse I always 

 long to paint from nature, and yet how almost maddening is the result ! 

 Rather would I drink it all in and fix its every feature in my mind, and 

 paint it from its memory, when the presence of the living thing before 

 me shall not mock my efforts and put to shame the crude creations of 

 oil and pigment. 



See how the cool gray rails are relieved against that rich dark back- 

 ground of dense olive juniper, how they hide among the prickly foliage ! 

 Look at that low-hanging branch which so exquisitely conceals the lowest 

 rail as it emerges from its other side, and spreads out among the creep- 



