“On gala days the town fires its great guns, which echo like popguns to these woods, and some waifs of martial music occasionally penetrate thus far. To me, away there in my bean-field at the other end of the town, the big guns sounded as if a puff ball had burst; and when there was a military turnout of which I was ignorant, I have sometimes had a vague sense all the day of some sort of itching and disease in the horizon, as if some eruption would break out there soon….And when the sound died quiet away, and the hum had ceased, and the most favorable breezes told no tale, I knew that they had got the last drone of them safely into the Middlesex hive, and that now their minds were bent on the honey with whi
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