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.