A HILL PASTURE. 



THROUGH the barnyard and over the worn 

 grass of Pasture Hill, down past the corner 

 where the lady-fern and dicksonia grow, 

 under the old, battered pine, and around the north- 

 westerly edge of the swamp, — that is the way to the 

 hill pasture. For this route brings you up to the 

 place where the rail fence is easiest to climb and 

 where moth-mulleins stand guard like tall, slim 

 sentries over the gateway to the field. 



As for times and seasons, it is best to go there 

 either in the forenoon of a day when the northwest 

 wind blows fresh and strong, and brings down fleecy 

 clouds through a deep blue sky all the way from 

 Greylock and Hoosac, or else to wait until the shad- 

 ows are slanting down the hill with the westering 

 of the sun on a clear afternoon. The bracing north- 

 wester promises the widest outlook, the most abund- 

 ant play of light and shade, the liveliest music 

 among the leaves. But the afternoon hour is en- 

 livened by the sweet symphony of the woodland 

 birds, and the dreamy haze on East Mountain and 

 Tom Ball is as potent as a magic spell to him who is 

 susceptible to the hypnotism of nature. 



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