Page:Literary pilgrimages of a naturalist (IA literarypilgrima00packrich).pdf/59

 his later life in what was then the quaint old village of Ponkapoag, as if the flowers of fancy to which he gave wings still hovered there. At nightfall it is easy along these meadows to

"See where at intervals the firefly's spark Glimmers and melts into the fragrant dark; Gilds a leaf's edge one happy instant, then Leaves darkness all a mystery again."

The quaint old Ponkapoag of not so very many years ago is changing fast. The trolley car passes and repasses in what was once its one street. The real estate man has come and modern houses grow up over night, almost, in the empty spaces over the old stone walls, while in the surrounding pastures and woodland appear the mansions of those who seek large estates not too far from the city. Suburban life begins to crowd Ponkapoag and the little self-centered country village of the genuine New England type passes. Most, however, of the sturdy old houses of a century or more ago remain and much of the beauty of the country round about them. On Sundays and holidays Ponkapoag Pond teems with an uproarious holiday crowd, but on weekdays one may still enjoy its beauty unmo