A Window in Arcady 
and expose a cylindrical head of shining black seeds so 
closely simulating a blackberry that it is said that even 
the birds have been known to be deceived by it. Lily, 
however, it is not, but a member of the iris family and 
own cousin to the flags of the meadows. 
Often of a summer evening I meet upon some footpath 
in the field, a country laborer leisurely plodding home¬ 
ward—pipe in mouth, dinner pail on arm and his day’s 
work behind him. Close behind him, too, sometimes jogs 
his dog with drooping tail and dripping tongue, and per¬ 
haps a child or two tagging along, come half way from 
home to meet father. Long after the little procession has 
passed the memory of it lingers with me and I like to 
think of its further progress—of the cottage toward which 
it fares, with a bit of yard in front and probably a white¬ 
washed picket fence with a gate that clicks behind them 
as they pass through. Just above the brow of the hill 
I can catch a glimpse of the roof with smoke rising from 
the chimney. If it is a hot night supper will be on the 
back porch, whence is an outlook through trellised vines 
into the garden. There, after supper, the man will hoe 
and weed while the twilight lasts, the crickets and frogs 
shrilling meanwhile their vesper songs. 
July 26. —Growing in the chinks of a cliff by the river 
I have found a blue bell—the genuine bluebell of Scot¬ 
land and of immortal song. This is, perhaps, the southern 
limit of its range in the eastern United States, for it is 
a lover of the higher latitudes. As we go further north 
we find it more abundant, and along the Delaware in the 
neighborhood of the Water Gap it is quite common. It 
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