sition. By him I was led by a circuitous but easy path to the very highest point of the cliff, which had hitherto been quite concealed from me by the wood. Seen from this spot the horizon comes full circle, save as slightly broken here and there by the very tops of the most enterprising trees. It was formerly selected as a post for the observations of the coast and geodetic survey, and from it the eye takes in a thousand square miles of valley and rolling hills. As we stood on the bare summit, it blew a gale which it was difficult to withstand. The sun was shrouded with heavy clouds, and the miles on miles of forest-clad hills, and shaded valleys, among which the scattered fields seemed unimportant, showed the rich but soft and subdued colours of a well-chosen oriental rug. (Again that comparison of great things with small.)

We stood for a little while bracing ourselves against the wind, and noting the city a few miles away, and the scattered towns, becoming distinct now that the leaves are falling, with hills and mountains in every direction, none very high, - not more than fourteen or fifteen hundred feet, even in the extreme distance; but the gale freshened, and making a mental note to come and come again to this point of vantage, I beat a retreat into the more sheltered valley.

I must add to the flowers still to be found, the red clover, the wild peppergrass, and herb Robert. I never realized how beautiful the latter was until I found it to-day with its delicately divided leaves and lovely pink blossoms, emerging from between and overlaying the basaltic blocks over which I climbed. I cannot say so much in favour of its fragrance, but this was quite atoned for by the catnip against which I brushed on the hillside, and the sweet fern through which I waded near the summit.

OCTOBER 15, 1893.

C

IV.

Over the river, on the hill,
Lieth a village, white and still;
All around it the forest trees
Whisper and shiver in the breeze;
Over it sailing shadows go
Of soaring hawk and screaming crow,
And mountain grasses low and sweet
Grow in the middle of every street.

Over the river, under the hill,
Another village lieth still.
There I see in the cloudy night
Twinkling stars of household light,
Fires that gleam from the smithy's door,
Mists that curl on the river's shore;
And in the roads no grasses grow,
For the wheels that hasten to and fro.

THUS sang Rose Terry in her cottage overlooking the river, and with that vision always before her, I do not wonder that the song came to her. On the steep hillside the streets of white marble climb toward heaven from the busy manufacturing village, and their quietness in the broad glare of day contrasts as strongly with the bustle below, if not so impressively, as under the cold light of the moon. My companion reminded me of the poem as our horses climbed the steep road, and told how the singer herself now reposes (as to the physical part) in that village on the hill where there's

Never a clock to toll the hours.

These people are as hospitable as one could ask to find. Here comes a good lady day after day and picks me up and carries me in the smoothest rolling of carriages far away among the hills, from which we can look back at our village at long range, or down into new valleys or over distant ridges. This time it was past Mrs. Rose Terry Cooke's former home, and. by a winding river which tumbled and brawled over the rocks in pleasant fashion, and then upon a broad summit whence we could look over toward a region which, perhaps, from its contorted mass of hills and ridges, or perhaps from the unconventional habits or manners of its denizens has earned from the inhabitants of the neighbourhood the not too complimentary name of "Satan's kingdom."

Here and there still glows a brilliant oak or maple, and now and then we see the whole gamut of colour on a sunlighted hillside, where the green leaves of the silver pines form a soft background for the brighter foliage. But many trees are bare, and show the full grace of their lines, and in numerous places we see as through a thin veil the secrets which the summer had concealed from our eyes.

I have repeatedly found myself after nightfall plodding along some unwonted wood path in the gathering darkness until I have begun to be apprehensive lest I might be compelled to pass the night in the damp, cool autumn air without shelter. On the last occasion I more than once nearly gave up extricating myself before morning. For these roads often start bravely with well-beaten tracks, but gradually show less and less evidence of use, and branch and branch until you are quite sure you do not know where you are. And the clouds cover the moon, and the darkness grows apace, and the shadows deepen about you; and you hear no sound save the katydids and crickets.

We have miles of woodland, broken here and there by open fields, and none of it primeval forest. Unhappily the primeval