DULCET DAYS IN THE HAMPSHIRE HILLS. 
By CHARLES HALLOCK. 
Were there ever days more charming, sum- 
mer haunts more satisfying, skies so bright, 
sun more genial, atmosphere so pure? Did 
mountain brooklets ever run more clear or 
hardwood forests wave their fronds more win- 
somely? Was ringing call of bluejay ever so 
resonant in the glen? And where did mother 
partridge ever brood her fledglings in glades 
so undisturbed ? 
For season after season it has been my 
blessed privilege to see the vernal buds unfold 
and the autumns ripen in these restful Hamp- 
shire Hills; and I have watched each change- 
ful growth develop onward toward maturity 
with an interest that fell little short of Druid 
worship—deriving such a sense of abiding 
comfort as no other spot on earth bestows on 
me. Perhaps it is because my grandparents 
lie in the Plainfield churchyard, where I have 
watched for more than half a century the twin 
hemlocks, which stand sentinels over them, 
steadfastly fulfil their jealous trust and gradu- 
ally extend their protecting limbs; or perhaps 
it is because my childhood’s associations inten- 
sify with lapsing years and advancing age. 
No matter. In the spring time all the blue- 
birds and thrushes jein in carolling forth the 
praises of these, their native haunts; the peep- 
frogs in the meadow chirp in unison; the bees. 
take grateful wing o’er new-found flowers, and 
the skunk cabbage and fiddle-head brakes 
spring forth into luxuriant sweep of foliage. It 
is charming! All through the joyous summer 
months the landscape glows with vigorous life, 
and in autumn the big, round, yellow, harvest 
moon attests the fulfillment of every golden 
promise. 
It is then I love to sniff the pungent aroma ot 
incipient decay—the fermentation which pre- 
cedes the inevitable mould and fungus—and I 
feel like lying down in the still woods and let- 
ting the juncos and robins cover me up with 
the crisp and rustling leaves, content and joy- 
ous to the end. I dare say that primitive Eden 
was no better place than this—the Eden which 
our first parents had to be driven from by 
flaming scourge ; and yet in these latter days 
these delectable hills have been voluntarily 
abandoned by their tenants! Few remain to 
possess and occupy. 
* * * * * * 
It is too bad ! 
Follow an old country road in any direction 
among these hills in Northwestern Massachu- 
setts, and you are sure to come eventually to 
some old ruin, a weed-choked cellar hole, or at 
least to a neglected orchard or a tumble-down 
stone wall. On either side the old fields are 
overgrown with thrifty young forests, and you 
will often find pine trees and tamaracks ming- 
ling familiarly with sturdy apple trees of doubt- 
ful fruitage ; and in June and October the at- 
tentive ear will detect the muffled drum beat o 
the partridge, which seems afar off down the 
glen, but is probably within the spruce copse 
close at hand. Yonder at the cross-roads, 
where there is a lusty poplar grove, striplings 
of two generations gone dropped potatoes for 
the hired man to cover, and from the weathered 
stumps which clustered in the clearing gathered 
many a wasp’s nest packed full of juicy grubs, 
to be used for bait for trout. Down in that 
tangled ravine stood a busy satinet factory, of 
which scarcely one iron bolt or brace remains. 
It would be a good place to fish for trout now, 
were it not for the brushwood completely 
choking up the stream and covering it out of 
sight. The searching sunbeams do not even 
penetrate to ‘‘ where the trout hide,” but we 
know the stream is there all the same, for we 
can detect its muffled babbling, like the croon- 
ing of an old woman in the chimney corner; 
and perchance, if we listen attentively, we may 
hear a muttered tale of some of the by-gone 
years. Ah! me. The old orchards which 
were once used for mowings now do niggard 
duty as pastures, while the pastures themselves 
are overgrown with scrubby ferns which con- 
ceal the multitudes of rocks, and are of no use 
at all. Cornfields and garden patches have 
long since grown to jungle, and the birch sap- 
lings and beeches are stoutest where the old 
