I
found haven with a friendly farmer, whom I joined while he was
driving his cows in from the pasture. I helped him with his
milking both that night and the next morning, and found his
situation and family most interesting--but I shall not here
enlarge upon that experience.
It was late afternoon when I finally surmounted the hill from
which I knew well enough I could catch the first glimpse of my
farm. For a moment after I reached the top I could not raise my
eyes, and when finally I was able to raise them I could not see.
"There is a spot in Arcady--a spot in Arcady--a spot in Arcady--"
So runs the old song.
There IS a spot in Arcady, and at the centre of it there is a
weather-worn old house, and not far away a perfect oak tree, and
green fields all about, and a pleasant stream fringed with alders
in the little valley. And out of the chimney into the sweet,
still evening air rises the slow white smoke of the supper-fire.
I turned from the main road, and climbed the fence and walked
across my upper field to the old wood lane. The air was heavy and
sweet with clover blossoms, and along the fences I could see that
the raspberry bushes were ripening their fruit.
So I came down the lane and heard the comfortable grunting of
pigs in the pasture lot and saw the calves licking one another as
they stood at the gate.
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