A COUNTRY PATHWAY.

I come upon it suddenly, alone —

A little pathway winding in the weeds

That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own,

I wander as it leads.

Full wistfully along the slender way,

Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine,

I take the path that leads me as it may —

Its every choice is mine.

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail,

Is startled by my step as on I fare —

A garter-snake across the dusty trail

Glances and — is not there.

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos

And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies,

Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose

When autumn winds arise.

The trail dips — dwindles — broadens then, and lifts

Itself astride a cross-road dubiously,

And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts

Still onward, beckoning me.

And though it needs must lure me mile on mile

Out of the public highway, still I go,

My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file,

Allure me even so.

Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went

At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars,

And was not found again, though Heaven lent

His mother ail the stars

With which to seek him through that awful night.

O years of nights as vain!— Stars never rise

But well might miss their glitter in the light

Of tears in mother-eyes!

So — on, with quickened breaths, I follow still —

My avant-courier must be obeyed!

Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will,

Invites me to invade

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide

Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile,

And stumbles down again, the other side,

To gambol there awhile

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead

I see it running, while the clover-stalks

Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said —

“You dog our country-walks

And mutilate us with your walking-stick!—

We will not suffer tamely what you do

And warn you at your peril,— for we'll sic

Our bumble-bees on you!”

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,—

The more determined on my wayward quest,

As some bright memory a moment dawns

A morning in my breast —

Sending a thrill that hurries me along

In faulty similes of childish skips,

Enthused with lithe contortions of a song

Performing on my lips.

In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth —

Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands,

Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth,

Put berries in my hands:

Or, the path climbs a boulder — wades a slough —

Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags,

Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou

On old tree-trunks and snags:

Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool

Upon a bridge the stream itself has made,

With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool

That its foundation laid.

I pause a moment here to bend and muse,

With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where

A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise,

Or wildly oars the air,

As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook —

The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed —

Swings pivoting about, with wary look

Of low and cunning greed.

Till, filled with other thought, I turn again

To where the pathway enters in a realm

Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign

Of towering oak and elm.

A puritanic quiet here reviles

The almost whispered warble from the hedge,

And takes a locust's rasping voice and files

The silence to an edge.

In such a solitude my somber way

Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom

Of his own shadows — till the perfect day

Bursts into sudden bloom,

And crowns a long, declining stretch of space,

Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled,

And where the valley's dint in Nature's face

Dimples a smiling world.

And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled,

I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams,

Where, like a gem in costly setting held,

The old log cabin gleams.

O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on

Adown your valley way, and run before

Among the roses crowding up the lawn

And thronging at the door,—

And carry up the echo there that shall

Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay

The household out to greet the prodigal

That wanders home to-day.