"Sleep that knows not breaking:
Morn of toil, nor night of waking."


Others, perhaps, were making their mark somewhere else.

"Independence Day," as Mr. Wetherell called it, was observed in a very
liberal manner on the farm. A lamb was slaughtered, green peas were
picked, and a plum-pudding made.

Lemonade, made of sparkling spring water, was a common drink. Mr.
Wetherell told me how his father always kept the day. He brought out the
large blue punchbowl and square cut-glass decanters, which his father
used on such occasions.

The next morning after the Fourth, I started out through the field for
the pasture. The grass was tall, and it waved gently in the morning
breeze. The whiteweed and clover sent forth an agreeable perfume. In the
low ground buttercups were shining like gold dollars, sprinkled through
the tall herdsgrass. Yellow-weed, the farmer's scourge, held up its
brown and yellow head in defiance.

On a knoll, a little before I reached the graveyard, I passed over a
piece of ground where the winter had killed the grass roots. Here I
found sorrel, cinque-foil, and a few bunches of blue-eyed grass growing.
Nature seemed to try to conceal the barrenness of the spot with beauty.
It was a grave, decorated.

Off to my right, in a piece of rank grass, where branches of dock had
sprung up, bobolinks were swinging the pale, green sprays, filling the