I chose a place in a field just below Old Howieson's farm, where there
is a thorn-apple tree to sit or lie under. From the thorn-apple tree, by
turning my head in one direction, I can look up at the crown of the hill
with its green hood of oaks and maples and chestnuts, and high above it
I can see the clouds floating in the deep sky, or, if I turn my head the
other way, for I am a kind of monarch there on the hill and command the
world to delight me, I can look off across the pleasant valley with its
spreading fields and farmsteads set about with trees, and the town
slumbering by the riverside. I come often with a little book in one
pocket to read from, and a little book in the other to write in, but I
rarely use either the one or the other, for there is far too much to see
and think about.

From this spot I make excursions round about, and have had many strange
and interesting adventures: and now find thoughts of mine, like lichens,
upon all the boulders and old walls and oak trees of that hillside.
Sometimes I climb to the top of the hill. If I am in a leisurely mood I
walk lawfully around Old Howieson's farm by a kind of wood lane that
leads to the summit, but often I cross his walls, all regardless of his
trespass signs, and go that way to the top.


[Illustration: It was on one of these lawless excursions in Old
Howieson's field that I first saw that strange old fellow]



It was on one of these lawless excursions in Old Howieson's field that I
first saw that strange old fellow who is known hereabout as the Herbman.
I came upon him so suddenly that I stopped short, curiously startled, as