foundations jutted up into the air; on one of these I stood a few moments, irresolute. I did not know where to go - whether north along the creek, thru East Beaver Woods, or south along the creeks in the fields and swamps, or east to the Rosemeadow country, or whether to go at all. Each course had an equal fascination and consequently I could not choose. What I really wanted to do was to stand there indefinately and contemplate on what I should do. It was in the air; - in the warm sunshine that was beating down on the grassy fields, grey woods and muddy roads; it was in the soft cooling breeze; in the blue haze that stole hither and thither seeming to have a liking especially for the woods; in the strain of the songsparrow; - it was everywhere, this indefinable and intangible yearning feeling; every stick and stone, every bush, every decaying log or stump, bathed in sunshine, every ripple of the stream, every gurgle, and every crash of ice, all these awoke it.        
     However this could not be, for I had to get home. As it was getting near dinnertime, the shortest way must chosen. This I concluded was byway of the Dutchman’s and so I struck out across the flatfields that extend bet