boarded in and called a common, to a beautiful
enclosure, hemmed in with maple trees as
straight and luxuriant as trees could well be,
decorated with an iron fence and gates,
abounding with little walks and footpaths,
and, in the spring, decked with grass as
green as that of the Emerald Isle, and
speckled and spangled with those two flowers
of childhood— buttercups and daisies — like a
carpet brought from Fairyland. It was a
pretty place. I used often to sit and read
and muse there; but when the summer
months brought the usual influx of city
visitors, I lelt the place to them, and
wandered off in search of others more lonely.

In one of my mid-day walks,  I struck
suddenly upon a grass-grown road, leading
off the main path, at the distance of some
three miles from the town. I followed it up
a little hill, switching with my cane at the
peppermint that grew on each side, or
stopping to watch a speckled adder who glided
lazily in and out from the fragrant thicket, as
I drew near to, or receded from, his home.
An old house stood half-way up this hill,
which was evidently the homestead of some
well-to-do farmer. It was large and square,
and standing back, with an orchard climbing
the green hills at its rear. Across the road
which I was following, and just opposite the
house, were three immense barns, whose
great doors were standing open, to admit the
carts of hay the oxen were drawing slowly
from the hill pastures. Through these doors
I caught a glimpse of the river-road below,
the river itself, the covered bridge, blue sky,
and the woods beyond. It was a delicious
bit of colouring, done by the hand of the
Great Artist himself. At my feet was a
little pool of stagnant water, on which some
white geese and ducks were fraternising,
while a brood of half-grown turkeys, with
their melancholy "Quit-quit," were making
up a foraging party for an excursion after
grasshoppers across the farm.

But the road, with its faint wheel-track
on either side, and its broad streak of green
in the middle, stretched on beyond the farm-house
and the barns, and I soon lost sight of
them as I descended the other side of the
hill. It was more lovely here, if such a thing
were possible; because, with the same view,
and with the same houses standing in the
distance, I also found a silence beneath the
blue sky of noon that was delightful. On
one side of the fallen stone wall, a thicket of
blackberries had grown over a heap of ruins,
which marked the site of the first church or
meeting-house ever erected in the town. On
the other, and across the road, lay a little
grave-yard, sloping quietly down to the road
and river below. The gate had rusted from
its hinges and lay upon the ground,
half-hidden by the long grass that was growing
over it. The tomb had not been in use for
many a year; and as I peeped through the
cracks of its door, I saw something lying on
the floor, which I knew was nothing more
nor less than the fragments of the bier on
which the coffins had once been borne out,
but which, just then, I was pleased to
magnify into the bones of a skeleton. The tender
blue of an American summer's day was in
the sky, and the sun shone down brightly
and hotly. Nothing seemed to stir, save the
grasshopper who leaped and chirped among
the graves— a kind of Old Mortality among
the insect tribe.

I followed the path still farther. And now,
for the first time, it began to wind beside
one of those bright leaping brooks, peculiar
to America, and to New England most of
all. I sauntered along, looking for minnows
in the sun-light, and wishing I had nothing
more to do than to spend existence in the
same way, when a laugh, most clear and
musical, made me start and look up.

The road had wound around, so that the
lonely grave-yard upon the hill was shut out
from my sight. In its place I beheld before
me a long avenue, or rather grove, of maple
trees, clothing the base and summit of another
hill, far higher. The sparkling brook, with
a last gush of music, leaped into the sunlit
recesses of this forest, and was lost to my
sight. But, on my right hand, stood a little
bird's nest of a white-washed cottage,
surrounded on all sides by a field of waving oats
I now nearly breast-high. A narrow footpath
led from the rustic gate, up to the cottage
door, which stood open; and at a well, close
by the house, stood a young girl, apparently
fishing with a line for something in the water,
while a dark-eyed and very beautiful lady
stood on the steps looking at her. A fat
brown-and-white dog, with broad feet which
turned out ludicrously— as if in no other way
they could support the weight of his body—
sat on the greensward in front of the gate,
blinking sleepily at the sunshine and the
flies. When he at last saw me, he put up
his head and gave a terrible howl, as if he
felt deeply insulted by my approach— a sound
which alarmed his young mistress, so that
she dropped the line she held, and started
back from the well in dismay. I then saw
that she had long auburn curls, and that
her face was full of that exquisite life and
light and bloom, which youth and a sunny
heart can shed upon the most irregular
features. There was nothing for me but to
make my excuses for my intrusion as well as
I could; so, after pacifying the dog, I opened
the boarded gate, and walked up to her. It
was Lucy, whom I thus met, for the first time.

It is strange how soon a perfectly natural and
simple manner sets one at ease. I had always
been called, and had always thought myself,
the shyest of men; yet, in five minutes I was
talking with the little fairy as freely as if I
had known her all my life. I had been
introduced to Aunt Susan, who evidently regarded
her young niece as the apple of her eye.
I had been reconciled to Tiger, who, after