122 The Turnpike Road. 



at evening, and the pale geranium blossoms, that nod by 

 the wayside, seem but the ghosts of flowers. The grave- 

 stones show plainly on the hill, and twilight, death, bird's 

 songs and evening rambles, mix themselves into that in- 

 explicable maze, which makes the beauty and the substance 

 of a dream. 



The days of May and of June are the main-springs of 

 Summer. To go afield, is like attending a grand show, a 

 visit to a large museum, and walking hastily through its 

 halls. There is so much, that you become bewildered, it 

 makes your head ache. The plants grow- up and bloom, 

 w r hile it seems you have been but around the field. At 

 night the fog comes as a wall of mist up the bay, and the 

 trees are dripping wet; and at noon the sun is hot, and 

 the leaves and branches grow — fairly bound along the path 

 of life. They come to the uphill, about the first of July. 



There are many dwellings along the Turnpike road, 

 built long ago, but now deserted, and falling into ruin. 

 Their grounds offer pleasant rambling places, for they seem 

 experienced bits of mother earth ; first wild, then culti- 

 vated, and now running wild again. Like those who have 

 traveled much, they seem capable of giving advice. It 

 may be a hard saying, but it is a truth, as gleaned from 

 them, that there is too much hope. Men are unreasonably 

 buoyed up in spite of facts — think that no doubt all will be 

 well with them, and so plant many fields and build innum- 

 erable structures. But nature has no care on which face 

 the copper falls, because it makes no difference to nature 

 and it is the same with every artificial hope, it is as likely 

 to end one way as another. 



