For the past week I have travelled daily by rail, through one of the loveliest sections of old Massachusetts, and have enjoyed glimpses of town and country along the way. A chorus of Spring greeted my fancy through it all.
The hills and valleys are green, and flowers spring up all along the route. The apple-trees have apparelled themselves in pink and white blossoms; the violets show themselves under their leafy coverts; buttercups, tall and graceful, nod gracefully by the meadow streams. In the rain, the branches of the trees, waving back and forth in the wind, look like so many lithesome, sinuous serpents, dancing to and fro.
Lake, brook, and river glide by me, and I catch glimpses too of lily pads. The cows are feeding on the hillsides. Patient plowmen are turning up the soil, earning their bread by the sweat of their brows.
