THERE are some strange summer mornings in the country, when he who is but asojourner from the city shall early walk forth into the fields, and be wonder-smittenwith the trance-like aspect of the green and golden world. Not a flower stirs; thetrees forget to wave; the grass itself seems to have ceased to grow; and all Nature, as if suddenly become conscious of her own profound mystery, and feeling norefuge from it but silence, sinks into this wonderful and indescribable repose.Such was the morning in June, when, issuing from the embowered and highgabled old home of his fathers, Pierre, dewily refreshed and spiritualized by sleep, gayly entered the long, wide, elm-arched street of the village, and halfunconsciously bent his steps toward a cottage, which peeped into view near theend of the vista.The verdant trance lay far and wide; and through it nothing came but the brindledkine, dreamily wandering to their pastures, followed, not driven, by ruddy-cheeked, white-footed bo
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