The sweet fresh air of the new springtime Breathes o’er the woods where the blue hills climb Aloft from a belt of spruce and pine That hides their feet in a dark green line. On the edge of the wood where the white birch trees Nod and bend in the passing breeze, A hermit lives who never is seen Nearer the meadow’s rolling green Than the pasture bars beside the hill, Where the road is lonely, dark, and still, And scarcely anyone passes by But the boy and cows, and squirrels shy. This hermit is brown, and small in size, And hides aw…
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