Page:The Writings of John Green Whittier (v.1).pdf/279

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AMONG THE HILLS.
269
Then, while along the western hills We watched the changeful gloryOf sunset, on our homeward way, I heard her simple story.
The early crickets sang; the stream Plashed through my friend’s narration:Her rustic patois of the hills Lost in my free-translation.
“More wise,” she said, “than those who swarm Our hills in middle summer,She came, when June’s first roses blow, To greet the early comer.
“From school and ball and rout she came, The city’s fair, pale daughter,To drink the wine of mountain air Beside the Bearcamp Water.
“Her step grew firmer on the hills That watch our homesteads over;On cheek and lip, from summer fields, She caught the bloom of clover.
“For health comes sparkling in the streams From cool Chocorua stealing:There’s iron in our Northern winds; Our pines are trees of healing.
“She sat beneath the broad-armed elms That skirt the mowing-meadow,And watched the gentle west-wind weave The grass with shine and shadow.
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