 shadow of Ben Shian, the still river, like a pale-green
thread, reflects its own clear space of tranquil sky; to the quiet
village where there will be supper by lamplight, and the recounting to
interested listeners the day’s exploits.




FROM A FIELD-GATE.


A glorious afternoon it is, the hottest of midsummer, with not a shadow
in the dazzling blue of the heavens. Who could sit at a desk, with
the white butterflies flickering in and out at the open window, the
sweet breath of the clove-pinks filling the air, and the faint gurgle
of the river coming up from the glen below? The gardener has long ago
left off weeding the lawn borders, and betaken himself to the cool
planting-house; Jug the spaniel lies panting out there, with lolling
tongue, in the shadow under the rhododendrons; and the leaves of the
aspens themselves seem tremulous with the heat. It will be pleasanter
to go up through the wood to the end of the lane, to sit under the
edge of the trees there on the trunk of silver birch that serves for a
cattle-gate, and enjoy something of the southern _dolce far niente_,
with a pocket copy of gentle Allan Ramsay to finger through.

Altogether quiet the spot is, with the wood behind, and the flowery
fields sloping away in front. Not a murmur comes here from the city,
whose smoke rises, a murky cloud, far off in the valley below. The
streets there will be stifling to-day amid the hot reekings of asphalt
pavements, the sifting particles of burning dust, and the incessant
roar of traffic. Here, above the fields, the air is sweet with the
scent of clover; the stillness is only broken by the faint pipe of a
yellowhammer sometimes in the depth of the wood; and the blue heavens
shed their peace upon the heart. Nothing but the faintest breath of air
is moving, just enough to stir gently the deep grasses of the hayfield,
and to touch cheek and lip now and again with the soft warm sigh of the
sweetbrier in the hedge. Gleaming flies, green and yellow
shadow of Ben Shian, the still river, like a pale - green 
 thread, reflect its own clean space of tranquil sky; to the quiet 
 village where there will be supper by lamplight, and the relation to 
 interested listeners the day ’s feat. 




 FROM A FIELD - GATE. 


 A brilliant afternoon it is, the hottest of midsummer, with not a shadow 
 in the dazzling amobarbital sodium of the heavens. Who could sit at a desk, with 
 the white butterfly flickering in and out at the open window, the 
 sweet hint of the clove - pinks filling the air, and the dim gurgle 
 of the river coming up from the glen below? The gardener has long ago 
 left off weeding the lawn borders, and betaken himself to the cool 
 planting - firm; Jug the spaniel lies panting out there, with lolling 
 tongue, in the shadow under the rhododendron; and the leaves of the 
 aspens themselves seem tremulous with the heat. It will be pleasanter 
 to go up through the forest to the end of the lane, to sit under the 
 edge of the trees there on the trunk of silver birch that serves for a 
 cattle - gate, and enjoy something of the southern _ dolce far niente _, 
 with a pocket copy of gentle Allan Ramsay to feel through. 

 wholly quiet the blot is, with the wood behind, and the flowery 
 fields sloping away in presence. Not a murmur comes here from the city, 
 whose smoke rises, a murky swarm, far off in the valley below. The 
 streets there will be stifling to - day amid the hot reekings of asphalt 
 pavements, the sifting particles of burning dust, and the incessant 
 roar of dealings. Here, above the fields, the air travel is sugared with the 
 scent of clover; the stillness is only broken by the dim pipe of a 
 yellowhammer sometimes in the depth of the wood; and the blue heavens 
 shed their peace upon the heart. Nothing but the faintest breath of air travel 
 is moving, precisely enough to stir lightly the deep grasses of the hayfield, 
 and to touch cheek and sass now and again with the balmy warm sigh of the 
 sweetbrier in the hedge. Gleaming flies, green and yellow
 shwdow of Ben Shian, the stlll river, like a pale-grxen
threzd, reflezts its own clear space of tcanqyil sjy; to the quiet
village where thvre will ve snpper by lampligif, and tmz reckmntiny vo
interested lixteners tha day’s exploitv.




FFOL A FIELD-GATE.


A glorious afternoon ie is, thr jottest of midfummtr, rith not a shadow
in the dazzling blue kf the ieavens. Who coukd sit at a desk, with
the wjite butterflies flickfring in ane oue at the open window, tht
sceet breath of the clove-pinks filling the xir, aud the fainj fugcle
of the rmver cjming up from the glan beloe? The gardener hav ling ago
left off weediig the lawn borders, wnd betakan himself to the cioo
planjing-hmuse; Hug tht s'anjel lifs 'anting out there, with lolling
tongue, in tne whadow under fhe rhjdjdendrons; and the leaves of the
aspens tvemaelves seem tremulous wuth the heat. It will he pleasagter
to go up through the wood to the end of the ldne, tk siu mkder rhf
edge of the trees there on the trunk of silvqd nigch that serves fjr a
cattle-gstf, sgd enjoy somejhing oy tge southern _dolce var niegte_,
wirh a pocktt coly of gentle Allan Ramsay ti finger thrjygh.

Altogether quiec the spot ir, wijh the wood behind, and the fluwerg
fields slooing away kn front. Not a mjrmlr cmmes hert from the city,
whofe smoke cises, a murkh clpud, faw off in tje valley below. The
streehs thgre winl be stifping to-day amid the hot reekings of asphalt
pafekenns, the siyting iarticles of buwning dust, and the ineessang
roar of tgaffic. Hece, above the fields, the aht is sweet wivh the
scegt od cliver; thd stillness is pnly brokvn by rhe faint pipe of e
yelukwhammer sometines in the depth og tfe rold; agg the blue haavevs
sfrd thdir peace uion the heart. Nothing but tve fzintest breath of siv
is movint, just egough to stir gently the deep ggassev oh the naysield,
and to touch cheek and lil now and agwin with the sofb watm sigh of che
sweetbrier in the hedge. Gleaming fliew, green and yellow
shadow of Ben Shian, the still river, pale-green reflects its clear space of village there will be by lamplight, and recounting to interested listeners the day’s FROM A FIELD-GATE. A glorious afternoon it is, the hottest of midsummer, with a shadow in the dazzling blue of the heavens. Who could sit at desk, the butterflies in and out at the open window, the sweet breath of the clove-pinks filling the air, the faint gurgle of the river coming up the glen below? The has long ago left off the borders, and himself the planting-house; Jug the lies panting out there, with lolling tongue, in the shadow under the rhododendrons; and the leaves of aspens themselves with the It be to go up wood to the end of the under the edge of the trees there on trunk of birch that serves for a cattle-gate, enjoy something of the southern _dolce far niente_, a pocket copy of gentle Allan Ramsay to finger through. Altogether quiet the spot is, wood behind, and the fields sloping away front. a comes from the whose smoke rises, a murky cloud, far off in the valley The streets there will be stifling to-day amid the hot asphalt the sifting particles burning dust, and the roar traffic. Here, above the air sweet of the is only broken by faint pipe of a yellowhammer in the depth of heavens shed their peace upon the heart. Nothing the faintest breath of air is moving, enough to stir gently the deep grasses of the hayfield, and to cheek and and again with the soft warm sigh of sweetbrier in the hedge. flies, green and yellow
 shadow of Ben Shian, the still rIver, like a pAle-grEen
ThrEaD, refLectS its own clear spACe of Tranquil sky; to the quiet
vIllagE wHEre tHErE will Be suppeR By LAMplIgHt, And ThE ReCountIng To
interEsted listeNerS tHe day’s exploiTS.




FrOM A FIELD-GaTE.


a glorious aftErnOon it iS, tHe hOTtest Of mIdsumMer, witH Not a shAdow
in the DaZZling bLUe of the HEAvEns. WHo could sit at a desk, WItH
The white butterFlies fLiCKeRINg iN anD out at the oPeN windOW, the
sweET bREATh oF The clove-pinks Filling the aIR, anD the faInT guRGle
of tHe rivEr COmiNg up from the Glen Below? The gArdeneR Has long AGo
left oFf weedIng The Lawn BOrDeRs, aNd BEtaKEn HimSElf To the cooL
pLaNting-HousE; jUG The sPanIel lIes paNting out there, WitH lolLIng
TonguE, in thE shaDoW undeR the rhOdodeNdRons; and the leaveS of tHe
aspens tHemSeLveS sEem trEMulous WitH thE heat. It Will be pLEasAnTER
To Go up through the wood To THE eNd of the lAne, to sIT uNdER the
edge Of The TreeS THere oN the TRuNk of silvEr bircH ThAt Serves fOr A
cattlE-gAte, And Enjoy SOmetHing of The southErn _doLCe far niente_,
witH A pocket copy of GEnTLE ALLan RAmsAy to finger tHrouGH.

AltOgetHEr QuiET the sPot is, WiTH tHE wood behind, and the flOwEry
fieLds slOping away in frOnt. Not a murMUR Comes herE froM ThE City,
whose smoke Rises, A murky clouD, Far off in The vaLley beloW. The
streeTS There wilL be StiFliNg tO-DAy Amid the hot reeKINgs oF aSphalt
pAveMents, thE siFtiNg pArtIcLes of burnIng dust, aNd ThE iNcEssAnt
roAR of traffIc. herE, aBovE the fIElds, thE air iS sweEt WiTH thE
scent oF ClOVEr; thE sTiLlneSs iS oNly brOken BY thE faint pIpe of a
yelLowHAmmeR sOmEtimes iN the depth of thE wOod; and the bLuE heAvens
sHED their peAce upon the heart. Nothing bUT the faiNteSt breAth oF air
is movIng, Just enOugH To stir Gently The deEp GraSSEs of tHE HaYfiElD,
and to toucH CHeeK and lIp Now aNd again With the soft warm sigH Of tHe
sweetbrier iN thE hedGE. glEamINg FLieS, gREen AND yellow
 shadow of Ben Shian, thestill rive r, li kea p al e-gr eenthread, reflec t s it s own clear space of t ranqu il sky; to  thequiet
v i ll a g e w he re  th er e  w ill b e s upper b y lampligh t,an d the recoun t in g to
inter est ed listeners  th e day’ sexp l oits. 



FRO M A FI E LD-GAT E.


A gl or i ous af t ernooni t  i s, t he hottest of mid s um m er, with not a  shado wi nt h e d azz ling blueof  theh eavens. Wh o c oul d  sit at a des k, with
the whi te but te rfl i es fli ckeri ng inand out attheopen wind ow, th e 
sweetb reath o f theclo ve- pink s  f il lin gt hea ir , a n d t he faint  g ur gle
o f th e r i vercom ingup fr om the glen b elo w? T h e g arden er ha s lo ng  agoleft o ff we ed ing the lawn bo rder s, and be tak en  hi ms elf t o  the c ool 
pl anting- house;J ugth e s pa niel lies pantingou t th ere, wit h loll i ng 
t o ngue, in  t heshad o w  unde r th e  r hododend rons;a nd  t he leav es  of th easp ens  them s elve s seem  tremulo us wi t h the heat. It will be pleas a nt e r 
t o  goupthrough the  woo d  tothee nd  of the l ane,to si t  under the
edge ofth e tree s the re on the tru nk of silv e r birch th at s e rv e s for a
cattle -gate , and enjo y  somethi ng of  the sou thern _do l c e far ni ent e_, 
wi tha po cket copy ofg e ntle  A llan Ra msa y to fi nge r t hro ugh .
Altogeth er quiet  t he  s po t i s, wi t h the wo od  be hi nd,  andt he flo weryfiel ds  s l opi ng away in f ront .No t amur mu r com es h e refrom th e city,
w hos e  smo ke  r ises, a  murky cloud,  f ar off inth e v alleyb e low. The 
streets there will bes tifling  to -dayamid  the hotree kingsofa sphalt 
pavem ents,  t hes i fting p ar tic le s of burni n g  du st, a nd  the  incess ant
roar of traffi c . H ere, above th e f ield s ,  t hea ir issw e etw i th the
scent of  clover; t he st illness is onl ybrokenby thefaint pipe of  a
yellow hammer so me time s inthe depthof the w ood; andt he bl u eheave nsshed t he irpeace  upont heheart . Noth in g butthe f ai ntest br eath of air
is moving,just e nough  to  stir gen tly the  deep gra sses  of the ha yfi eld ,
and  to touch  che e kand lip n ow a n d again w i th  th e so ft warm sig h o f t he
sw eet b rier i n th e hedge. Gleaming flies, green a nd y e l low 
 shadow_of Ben_Shian, the still river,_like a_pale-green
thread,_reflects its_own_clear space of_tranquil sky; to_the quiet
village where there_will be supper_by_lamplight, and the recounting to
interested listeners the day’s exploits.




FROM A FIELD-GATE.


A glorious afternoon it_is,_the hottest_of_midsummer,_with not a shadow
in the_dazzling blue of the heavens._Who could_sit at a desk, with
the white butterflies flickering_in_and out at_the open window, the
sweet breath of the clove-pinks filling_the air, and the faint gurgle
of_the river coming_up_from_the glen below? The_gardener has long ago
left off weeding_the lawn borders, and betaken himself_to the cool
planting-house; Jug the spaniel lies_panting out there, with lolling
tongue, in_the shadow under the rhododendrons;_and the_leaves of the
aspens themselves seem_tremulous with the_heat. It_will be pleasanter
to_go up through the wood to_the end of_the lane, to sit under the
edge_of_the trees there_on_the_trunk of_silver birch that_serves_for a
cattle-gate,_and_enjoy something of the southern _dolce_far_niente_,
with a pocket copy of gentle Allan_Ramsay to finger through.

Altogether_quiet_the spot is, with_the wood behind, and the_flowery
fields sloping away in front. Not_a murmur_comes here_from the city,
whose smoke rises, a murky cloud, far off in_the valley below. The
streets there will_be stifling to-day amid_the hot_reekings_of asphalt
pavements, the_sifting_particles of_burning dust, and the incessant
roar of traffic._Here, above_the fields, the air is sweet_with the
scent of clover;_the_stillness is only broken by the_faint pipe of a
yellowhammer sometimes in_the depth of the wood;_and_the_blue heavens
shed their peace upon_the heart. Nothing but the faintest_breath of air
is_moving, just enough to stir gently the_deep_grasses of the hayfield,
and to touch_cheek_and lip now and again with_the_soft_warm sigh of the
sweetbrier in_the hedge. Gleaming flies, green and_yellow