Some Glimpses of Grousing 133 



state " — time mid-afternoon. Half of this slope is 

 gleaming stubble which rolls in sleepy, golden 

 billows to a strand of dull crimsons and cooling 

 bronze, where the waist-high scrub-oaks and 

 briers and dwarf hazels weave together, glowing 

 like some huge rare rug of Orient spread over 

 the everlasting hills. Beyond all this, stern 

 ramparts of grim gray stone, hearsed with som- 

 bre pines, beneath which trail heavy crimson ban- 

 ners of creepers, as though flung earthward in 

 grief for the passing glory of the year. Misting 

 it all, softening where too harsh, transforming 

 dusk corridors into silvery reaches of immeasur- 

 able length, spreads the magic of Indian sum- 

 mer, as though Autumn had flung afar a net of 

 shimmering gossamer in a playful attempt to 

 bind captive each giant of rock and pine. 



It is indeed a pretty picture, but the prettiest 

 bit of all is in the foreground. It is a group 

 which well might startle those only acquainted 

 with the dignities of metropolitan life and its 

 surroundings. Three figures compose the group, 

 and they are arranged like a wedge. The thin 

 edge of the wedge has been inserted into some of 

 the most picturesque fragments of North Amer- 

 ica — and driven home afterward. It is a dog — 

 a grand white fellow, with the hall-mark of his 

 breeding, a lemon head. Big, and leanly strong, 

 his white coat shining with healthy lustre, his 



