MOUNTAIN-TOP AND VALLEY 55 



scarcely noticeable to one fresh from the steep- 

 ness of a mountain cone, I found myself gazing 

 down upon one of the most engaging scenes in 

 the world; a sequestered vaUey farm, thrifty- 

 looking, snugly kept, nestled among low hiUs, 

 with a mountain river winding along the farlher 

 side of it, between the meadow and the woodland, 

 now lost to sight, now shining in the sun. I had 

 known the place for years, as I had known the 

 worthy man who owns it ; and I had looked at 

 it many times from this very point ; but I had 

 never seen it tUl this morning. A pleasant thing 

 it is when an old picture or an old poem, or both 

 in one, is thus made new. If our eyes could but 

 oftener be anointed ! 



The softness of the meadow, freshly sprung 

 after the summer mowing, the glistening of the 

 corn leaves, the narrow road, — a brown ribbon 

 laid upon the green carpet, —that runs to the 

 door and stops (for nothing goes by — nothing 

 but the river, the clouds, and the birds), the shade 

 trees clustered lovingly about the house, the whole 

 pastoral scene, I saw it all with the vision of one 

 who had been looking at a vaguely defined, far- 

 away world, over which the eye wandered as the 

 dove wandered over the face of the waters, and 

 now had come suddenly in sight of home. 



Yes, distance is a good painter, but nearness 



