"Unrivaled one, the hermit-thrush,
Solitary, singing in the west,"
and looking out upon the hills, where I still hoped to find my bluejay.
VII.
IN THE WOOD LOT.
"There's blue jays a-plenty up in the wood lot," said the farmer's boy, hearing me lament my unsuccessful search for that wily bird. "There's one pair makes an awful fuss every time I passes."
I immediately offered to accompany the youth on his next trip up the mountain, where he was engaged in dragging down to our level, sunshine and summer breezes, winter winds and pure mountain air, in the shape of the bodies of trees, whose noble heads were laid low by the axes last winter. One hundred and fifty cords of beauty, the slow work of unnumbered years, brought down to "what base uses"! the most beautiful of nature's productions degraded to the lowest service—to fry our bacon and bake our pies!
The farmer did not look upon it exactly in that way; he called it "cord-wood," and his oxen dragged it down day by day. The point of view makes such a difference!
The road that wound down through the valley, skirting its hills, bridging its brooks, and connecting the lonely homestead with the rest of the human world, had on one side a beautiful border of all sorts of greeneries, just as Nature, with her inimitable touch, had placed them. It was a home and a cover for small birds; it was a shade on a warm day; it was a delight to the eye at all times. Yet in the farmer's eye it was "shiftless" (the New Englander's bogy). The other side of the road he had "improved;" it gloried in what looked at a little distance like a single-file procession of glaring new posts, which on approaching were found to be the supports of one of man's neighborly devices—barbed wire. Rejoicing in this work of his hands on the left, he longed to turn his murderous weapons against the right side. He was labored with; he bided his time; but I knew in my heart that whoever went there next summer would find that picturesque road bristling with barbed wire on both sides. It will be as ugly as man can make it, but it will be "tidy" (New England's shibboleth), for no sweet green thing will grow up beside it. Nature doesn't take kindly to barbed wire.