e havened the beasts and fowls when storms pursued them. Here
the leaves fell in the glory of the autumn, here other leaves burst
forth in the miracle of spring, and here the pewee called in the summer.
Here the Indian tracked his game.

It was not so very long ago. That old man's father remembers it. Then it
was a new and holy land, seemingly fresh from the hand of the creator.
The old man speaks of it as of a golden time, now far away and hallowed;
he speaks of it with an attitude of reverence. "Ah yes," my father told
me; and calmly with bared head he relates it, every incident so sacred
that not one hairbreadth must he deviate. The church and the master's
school and the forest,--these three are strong in his memory.

Yet these are not all. He remembers the homes cut in the dim wall of the
forest. He recalls the farms full of stumps and heaps of logs and the
ox-teams on them, for these were in his boyhood. The ox-team was a
natural part of the slow-moving conquest in those rugged days. Roads
betook themselves into the forest, like great serpents devouring as they
went. And one day, behold! the forest was gone. Farm joined farm, the
village grew, the old folk fell away, new people came whose names had to
be asked.

And I thought me why these fields are not as hallowed as were the old
forests. Here are the same knolls and hills. In this turf there may be
still the fibres of ancient trees. Here are the paths of the midsummer
brooks, but vocal now only in the freshets. Here are the winds. The
autumn goes and the spring comes. The pewee calls in the groves. The
farmer and not the Indian tracks the plow.

Here I look down on a little city. There is a great school in it. There
are spires piercing the trees. In the distance are mills, and I see the
smoke of good accomplishment roll out over the hillside. It is a
self-centred city, full of pride. Every mile-post praises it. Toward it
all the roads lead. It tells itself to all the surrounding country. And
yet I cannot but feel that these quiet fields and others like them have
made this city; but I am glad that the fields are not proud.

One day a boy and one day a girl will go down from these fields, and
out into the thoroughways of life. They will go far, but these hills
they will still call home.

From these uplands the waters flow down into the streams that move the
mills and that float the ships. Loads of timber still go hence for the
construction down below. Here go