So side by side we walk until my day Is growing dusk, and Time’s purse of the years Holds alms of mine, bright-jeweled with my tears, Since I have given these treasured hours away. Nor from his swollen purse will he give me One hour, although with spendthrift song and gay I flung him alms, nor ever said him nay. A beggar and a miser both is he! [Illustration] IN “THE CIRCUIT OF THE SUMMER HILLS” BY JOHN BURROUGHS Author of “Wake Robin,” “Locusts and Wild Honey,” etc. WITH A PORTRAIT I To sit on one’s rustic porch, or at the door of one’s tent, and see the bees working on the catnip or motherwort or clover, to see the cattle grazing leisurely in the fields or ruminating under the spreading trees, or the woodchucks creeping about the meadows and pastures, or the squirrels spinning along the fences, or the hawks describing great spirals against the sky; to hear no sound but the voice of birds, the caw of crows, the whistle of marmots, the chirp of crickets; to smell no odors but the odors of grassy fields, or blooming meadows, or falling rain; and amid it all, to lift one’s eyes to the flowing and restful mountain lines--this is to get a taste of the peace and comfort of the summer hills. This boon is mine when I go to my little gray farm-house on a broad hill-slope on the home farm in the Catskills. Especially is it mine when, to get still nearer nature and beyond the orbit of household sounds and interruptions, I retreat to the big hay-barn, and on an improvised table in front of the big open barn-doors, looking out into the sunlit fields where I hoed corn or made hay as a boy, and write this and other papers. The peace of the hills is about me and upon me, and the leisure of the summer clouds, whose shadows I see slowly drifting across the face of the landscape. The dissonance and the turbulence and the stenches of cities, how far off they seem; the noise and the dust and the acrimony of politics--how completely the hum of the honey-bees and the twitter of swallows blot them all out! In the circuit of the hills, the days take form and character as they do not in town, or in a country of low horizons. George Eliot says in one of her letters: “In the country the days have broad open spaces and the very stillness seems to give a delightful roominess to the hours.” This is especially true in a hilly and mountainous country, where the eye has a great depth of perspective opened to it. Take those extra brilliant days that we so often have in the autumn--what a vivid sense one gets of their splendor amid the hills! The deep, cradle-like valleys, and the long flowing mountain lines, make a fit receptacle for the day’s beauty; they hold and accumulate it, as it were. I think of Emerson’s line: “O, tenderly the haughty day fills his blue urn with fire.” The valleys are vast blue urns that hold a generous portion of the lucid hours.