OUR VALLEY. 



ALBERTA A. FIELD. 



" A fresh foot-path, a fresh flower, 

 A fresh delight." 



— Richard Jefteries. 



Everyone knows those rare days when 

 nature puts on an extra gown in which to 

 receive her admirers. Her bonny face is 

 wreathed in smiles, and above her brow 

 is an aureole of blue skies and gladsome 

 sunshine. 



On such a day as this, we tramp forth, 

 Romance and I. Soon we are across the 

 great viaduct which separates the civilized 

 from the sylvestrian, where we are greet- 

 ed by a groat butterfly, which floats in 

 Eastern gorgeousness above a cluster of 

 shining milk-weed blossoms. We arrive 

 just in time for one of Nature's great re- 

 ception. 1 - The notes of invitation were the 

 dainty snowdrops and crocuses of early 

 springtime, which told us months ago that 

 the great summer carnival was near at 

 hand, and that we would all be made wel- 

 cou.j without distinction. This afternoon 

 we seek the inner sanctuary, and bend our 

 steps toward the valley, at which we so 

 often gaze with longing eyes from the 

 viaduct above. We are now about to form 

 a more intimate acquaintance with the wav- 

 ing willows whose fleeting softness is full 

 of shadowy preens, and the winding creek 

 full of deepening pools, and chattering 

 shallows. We tread cautiously along the 

 high bank that skirts the valley, for we 

 do not want to disturb the orchestral col- 

 ony from whose throats comes bubbling 

 the great song of love and summer, as they 

 dart through the thicket that covers the 

 hill side. We pause a moment to gloat 

 over a shining mass of bittersweet which 

 has interwoven its tendrils with the 

 branches of a great oak that has been 

 felled bv some winter blast, covering its 

 naked decay with thousands of thick, 

 glossy leaves. A little farther along we 

 come to a grove of luxurious, splay-leaved 

 pawpaw bushes, whose foliage covers the 

 wing-way of many a songster, and we 

 catch glimpses of bright eved birds peep- 

 ing cautiously at us from under some thick 

 leaf. We keep still, hoping to restore con- 

 fidence to our bird neighbors, and are re- 

 paid by hearing among the branches of a 

 dead chestnut directly over our heads, a 

 low, soft, mysterious song sentence. At 

 first it seems only a low whistle, but it 

 soon resolves itself into "Sweet spirit; 

 sweet, sweet spirit;" and we know we are 

 listening to some feathered love maker, 

 who is singing his paean of praise to his be- 

 loved mate, hidden from our sight. We 

 give a good half hour trying to discover 



this elusive songster, who is evidently in 

 the game, for he moves but a few feet 

 ahead of us as we cautiously round the 

 trees and shrubs, while his plaintive eu- 

 logy continues in its sweet minor strain, 

 reminding us of the sirens of old who 

 drew the enchanted Ulysses to their island 

 home by their magic song. We give up our 

 search reluctantly. Daylight, though long 

 at this season of the year, is not everlast- 

 ing, and manv a time must we put one foot 

 in front of the other before our day's 

 journey will be ended. 



After a disgraceful scramble which is 

 half tumble, we reach the valley below. 

 We have been unable to make any notes 

 on the way down, for all our faculties 

 have been required in putting on the 

 brakes. Much of our pathway is almost 

 perpendicular, and we consider ourselves 

 fortunate in reaching the lower level com- 

 paratively whole, having left only an oc- 

 casional hall mark of dress binding or hat 

 frivol on some aggressive thorn bush on 

 the way down. 



We draw a long breath of content as we 

 look around us. A great crimson and black 

 butterfly is daintily opening and closing its 

 gaily painted wings on a blackberry bush 

 near at hand. It is a beautiful specimen 



BERENICE. 



of Lepidoptera, called Berenice, after the 

 wife of Antischus, King of Syria, who was 

 said to be the loveliest woman of her time. 



leg 



