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 Then, while along the western hills
We watched the changeful glory
Of 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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