ugh the fields near the house,
where the grass was always a darker green along its course, even when it
dried up; and the windings so many and sharp that they seemed to write
letters when one looked down upon them from a little elevation. I have
sat in a tree and fancied I spelled out words in the green grass.

As I came nearer the house I became more and more agitated about the
welcome that awaited me. It was friendly, yet surprised, and not as warm
as I had expected. Had they changed? Or was it I? Certainly I did not
feel at home. This was the house most dear to me, this the settle where
I had sat when my legs did not reach the floor. How familiar sounded the
voices I now heard, one deep and penetrating, the other a thin falsetto;
yet I did not feel the comfort I had imagined that I should. At the
table were the same dishes I remembered; the taste was gone. After
supper I went out and tried to sit in my old seat in the elm. It was too
small for me now; alas, it seemed to disown me, to have cast me out. The
barn which once looked so enormous appeared insignificant. I went to bed
unreconciled and unhappy. Yet how can a healthy boy awake in the morning
dejected? Night, pitying night, which knows how the evil days succeed
each other, hinders their sad return and hides in her oblivious mantle
their weariness, their sorrows and their disappointments. I was awake at
dawn, and yesterday was forgotten. The sun shone across the tops of the
forest oaks just beginning to show their red buds. There was dew on the
grass and a sweet, earthy smell in the air. Robins were calling
everywhere and blue birds flying low from fence to fence. The little
brook was full to the brim; the lush grass laid flat along its borders.
I found the places where I used to erect my miniature mill wheels, and
the remains of the little dam. Here was already antiquity. I did not
need Egypt or Greece. Childhood contains their whole story. The season
was unusually early; the great elm was becoming misty with the ruffled
edges of its unfolding leaves. The outermost sprays began to drop from
increasing weight of sap and leaf bud. Catkins hung on birch and willow
and alder and the ancient bed of tansy had a new growth of three inches.
Down the hill toward Beaver Pond, and along the meadow clusters of ferns
were leading up their brides and bridegrooms in opposite pairs with
bowed heads. It was twenty days before the usual pasturing time; but
Uncle Lyman was turning