What A Wealth Of Cultivated Fields And Sunny
Pastures Rise Terrace-Like On Slopes Far Up Their Summits.
There
is always farmland enough to give picturesque variety, and
woodland enough to give a wild touch and mellow charm when
viewed from a distance.
Endless lines of old stone fences appear in the valleys and
disappear over the rough hillside. Some are falling into ruin,
others are firm and high, adding their charm to the picture. Old
apple orchards were scattered here and there. The mossy trunks
and decayed limbs told that many seasons had passed over their
branches. Their owners have long since "gone the way of all the
world." Not only the masters who planted those trees, but the
houses that sheltered them have passed away forever. The trees
no longer bear much fruit, but are still the homes of vast
numbers of shy wood-folk.
What a ringing medley greeted us as we passed. The cuckoo was
calling amid his caterpillar feasting. An indigo bunting from a
tall maple sang his clear, sweet notes. The silvery phrases of
the orchard oriole fell on the ear like a shower of "liquid
pearls." No other songster save the vireo is so prodigal of his
minstrelsy. Occasionally we caught the loud, querulous notes of
the great crested flycatcher. Maryland yellow throats sang,
"witchery, witchery, witchery" down among the bushy fence rows.
Wren notes fell like silvery drops of water through the sunlit
air, and redstarts made the place ring with their rich clear
notes.
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