112 The Turnpike Road. 



The every-day wayside scenes — the common pictures 

 of common life, though they live long in the mind, yet 

 they are difficult to describe with all of the reality that 

 they seem to wear. Perhaps the sun shines obliquely, 

 across the stony hill, upon the houses on the opposite side 

 of the way, and as the curtains wave in the open windows, 

 an occasional glimpse is offered of the little parlor within, 

 of the books arranged after a certain plan on the table, 

 and of the motto, knit in worsted over the door, for there 

 is a conventional parlor as there is a style in dress. Or, 

 perchance, there is an imprint of a child's naked foot in the 

 soft earth by the wayside ; or a little girl stops you and 

 inquires if you have seen her mother, and looks with 

 pitiful amazement when she finds you are not a family 

 acquaintance. 



The houses crowd about the base of the round topped 

 hill, that overlooks the village and the bay. With its 

 steep rocky sides it keeps the dwellings from scrambling 

 up, so at least we can get a long, uninterrupted outlook 

 from its top. The Camberwell butterflies come from under 

 the loose stones on its side, in early spring, and their wings 

 rattle against them, as they fly with weak, uncertain flight. 

 The first butterfly of Spring, but a remnant of the old year 

 — all the yellow faded out of the borders of her wings dur- 

 ing the long winter sleep. 



What a curious phase of existence is this sleeping and 

 awakening; to hibernate through all the winter days, and 

 to gradually be ushered into active life again by the 

 warming sun. There is a peace, a quietness and a mys 

 tery, that attaches itself to the lives of these lone waifs of a 



