The steam whistle at a distance sounds even like the hum of a bee in a flower. So man’s works fall into nature.
The flies hum at mid-afternoon, as if peevish and weary of the length of the days. The river is shrunk to summer width; on the sides smooth whitish water,—or rather it is the light from the pads;—in the middle, dark blue or slate, ripple.
The color of the earth at a distance where a wood has been cut off is a reddish brown. Nature has put no large object on the face of New England so glaringly white as a white house.