a Ibill pasture* 55 



common trick of the sentiments. At all events, I am 

 glad that this favourite outlook is toward the east. I 

 can lounge here in body, and thought will fly, far 

 swifter than the winds, across these Berkshire hills 

 and dales, over the middle counties of the old Bay 

 State, down to the waves which wash the Gurnet 

 and the sandy bluffs of Cape Cod. Then, with closed 

 eyes, and ears full of the sea-sounds in the pines, I 

 can almost believe that my body, too, has been 

 translated, and that the old Atlantic is breaking in a 

 lazy surge just down by the stone-wall. 



But the sun moves around and drives one from 

 the shady covert and puts an end to these dreams 

 by daylight. Yet others follov/ hard after. Even as 

 one lies here with cheek close to the earth, there 

 steals upon the sense a fragrance, pungent, aromatic, 

 subtle as some rare perfume, and elusive as the flight 

 of the firefly. It calls to memory the interior of some 

 country homestead, and conjures up the cupboard 

 where the ''simples'' are kept, and clean cool cham- 

 bers with beds whose linen gives out this same 

 sweet exhalation. One has not far to look for the 

 fragrant everlasting whose woolly blossoms yield this 

 pleasant breath, dear to every country boy and girl, 

 but dearer still to him who hides a bunch of it in the 

 desk drawer at the city office, a swift reminder in 

 the busy hours of the tar-off hillside under the 

 summer sun. Gather a handful of this grateful yield 

 of the hill pasture, and stroll a few rods farther, for 

 in yonder copse is reserved a pleasant surprise. 



