The farmer’s cart-path, which leads directly through their hall, does not in the least put them out,–as the muddy bottom of a pool is sometimes seen through the reflected skies. I do not know whether I heard the sounds of a suppressed hilarity or not. Their house was not obvious to vision their trees grew through it. The pines furnished them with gables as they grew. I saw their park, their pleasure-ground, beyond through the wood, in Spaulding’s cranberry-meadow. I was impressed as if some ancient and altogether admirable and shining family had settled there in that part of the land called Concord, unknown to me,–to whom the sun was servant,– who had not gone into society in the village,–who had not been called on. Its golden rays straggled into the aisles of the wood as into some noble hall. I saw the setting sun lighting up the opposite side of a stately pine wood.
I took a walk on Spaulding’s Farm the other afternoon. This etext was compiled and prepared by John Bechard, an American living in London, England George MacDonald
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