The turnip field was splendidly and
luxuriantly green with never a sign of the brown earth. The hay meadow,
too, was green and purple with the second growth of clover.
So down the lane and between the shorn fields, yellow and green, between
the clover fields and the turnips, they walked in silence, for the
spell of the Sabbath evening lay upon the sunny fields, barred with the
shadows from the trees that grew along the fence lines everywhere.
At the "slashing" the wagon ruts faded out and the road narrowed to a
single cow path, winding its way between stumps and round log piles,
half hidden by a luxuriant growth of foxglove and fireweed and asters,
and everywhere the glorious goldenrod. Then through the bars the path
led into the woods, a noble remnant of the beech and elm and maple
forest from which the farm had been cut some sixty years before. Cool
and shadowy they stood, and shot through with bright shafts of gold from
the westering sun, full of mysterious silence except for the twittering
of the sleepy birds or for the remonstrant call of the sentinel crow
from his watch tower on the dead top of a great elm. Deeper into the
shade the path ran until in the gloom it faded almost out of sight.
Soothed by the cool shade, Cameron loitered along the path, pausing to
learn of Tim the names of plants and trees as he went.
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