with the delicate tinge of early summer or of May. Then there is the
solemn and dark green of the pines. The effect is, that every tree in
the wood and every bush among the shrubbery has a separate existence,
since, confusedly intermingled, each wears its peculiar color, instead of
being lost in the universal emerald of summer. And yet there is a
oneness of effect likewise, when we choose to look at a whole sweep of
woodland instead of analyzing its component trees. Scattered over the
pasture, which the late rains have kept tolerably green, there are spots
or islands of dusky red,--a deep, substantial line, very well fit to be
close to the ground,--while the yellow, and light, fantastic shades of
green soar upward to the sky. These red spots are the blueberry and
whortleberry bushes. The sweetfern is changed mostly to russet, but
still retains its wild and delightful fragrance when pressed in the hand.
Wild China-asters are scattered about, but beginning to wither. A little
while ago, mushrooms or toadstools were very numerous along the
wood-paths and by the roadsides, especially after rain. Some were of
spotless white, some yellow, and some scarlet. They are always mysteries
and objects of interest to me, springing as they do so suddenly from no
root or seed, and growing one wonders why. I think, too, that some
varieties are pretty objects, little fairy tables, centre-tables,
standing on one leg. But their growth appears to be checked now, and
they are of a brown tint and decayed.

The farm business to-day is to dig potatoes. I worked a little at it.
The process is to grasp all the stems of a hill and pull them up. A
great many of the potatoes are thus pulled, clinging to the stems and to
one another in curious shapes,--long red things, and little round ones,
imbedded in the earth which clings to the roots. These being plucked
off, the rest of the potatoes are dug out of the hill with a hoe, the
tops being flung into a heap for the cow-yard. On my way home, I paused