isible when they flash into the sunshine, and
annihilated out of visible existence when they dart into a region of
shadow, to be again reproduced as suddenly. Now we hear the striking of
the village clock, distant, but yet so near that each stroke is
distinctly impressed upon the air. This is a sound that does not disturb
the repose of the scene; it does not break our Sabbath,--for like a
Sabbath seems this place,--and the more so, on account of the cornfield
rustling at our feet. It tells of human labor; but being so solitary
now, it seems as if it were so on account of the sacredness of the
Sabbath. Yet it is not; for we hear at a distance mowers whetting their
scythes; but these sounds of labor, when at a proper remoteness, do but
increase the quiet of one who lies at his ease, all in a mist of his own
musings. There is the tinkling of a cowbell,--a noise how peevishly
discordant were it close at hand, but even musical now. But hark! there
is the whistle of the locomotive,--the long shriek, heard above all
other harshness; for the space of a mile cannot mollify it into harmony.
It tells a story of busy men, citizens from the hot street, who have
come to spend a day in a country village,--men of business,--in short,
of all unquietness; and no wonder that it gives such a startling scream,
since it brings the noisy world into the midst of our slumberous peace.
As our thoughts repose again after this interruption, we find ourselves
gazing up at the leaves, and comparing their different aspects,--the
beautiful diversity of green, as the sun is diffused through them as a
medium, or reflected from their glossy surface. We see, too, here and
there, dead, leafless branches, which we had no more been aware of
before than if they had assumed this old and dry decay since we sat down
upon the bank. Look at our feet; and here, likewise, are objects as good
as new. There are two little round, white fungi, which probably sprung
from the ground in the course of last night,--curious productions, of
the mushroom tribe, and which by and by will be those small things with
smoke in them which children call puff-balls. Is there nothing else?
Yes; here is a whole colony of little ant-hills,--a real village of
them. They are round hillocks, formed of minute particles of gravel,
with an entrance in the centre, and through some of them blades of grass
or small shrubs have sprouted up, producing an effect not unlike trees
that overshadow a homest