To see the
bright sun standing in his glory up in the sky, shedding his placid
light over the earth, when the air is clear, the winds hushed, and the
leaves are still and moveless on the trees; and then to look along the
hillsides, and mark the bright sunlight, and the deep shadows, the
green of the fir, the hemlock, and the spruce, the yellow of the
birch, the crimson of the maple, the dark brown of the beech, the grey
of the oak, the silver glow of the popple, and the varying shades of
all these, mingling and blending in all the harmony of brilliant
coloring. Why, these hillsides are decked like a maiden in her beauty,
like a bride robed for the altar! Talk about springtime, or summer!
Green on the hillside! green in the meadows and pastures! green
everywhere--all around is changeless and everlasting green! as if
hillside and valley, forest and field, had but a single dress for
morning, noon, and night, and that only and always green! True, there
is the music of the birds, joyous notes and variant, happy and
hilarious, in the spring-time, but there is no cricket under the flat
stone in the pasture, his song is not heard in the stone wall, or in
the corner of the fences; no music of the katydid; no tapping of the
woodpecker on the hollow tree, or the dead limb; no chattering of the
squirrel, as he gathers his winter store; no pattering of the faded
leaves, as they come so quietly down from their places; no falling of
the ripened nuts, loosened from their burs or shucks by the recent
frosts.
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