But, he did not climb the hill nearest the car; he climbed the hill that overlooked that hill.
Flat on the ground, hidden in the golden-rod he lay motionless.

Before him, for fifteen miles stretched hills and tiny valleys.

Six miles away to his right rose the stone steeple, and the red roofs of Greenwich.
Directly before him were no signs of habitation, only green forests, green fields, gray stone walls, and, where a road ran up-hill, a splash of white, that quivered in the heat.

The storm of the night before had washed the air.

Each leaf stood by itself.