IRamble 



THE distant river comes and goes as the sun- 

 light bids it. At times, a mere matter of 

 faith, but now a glittering thread of silver wend- 

 ing its shiny way to the sea. But I take more 

 kindly to the ponds and ditches. They come 

 more nearly down to my level and are compan- 

 ionable to-day. The north wind passes overhead, 

 and the sunlight creeps among the old oaks as if 

 expecting to find me. It does, and we laugh 

 together. Summer has left an abundance by 

 which to remember her. We call it winter fruit, 

 but it was the deft fingers of summer that shaped 

 the bright red berries of the black alder which now 

 replace the scarlet lobelia that in August blazed 

 by the brookside. Then, too, there were the 

 ruddy seed-vessels of the wild rose, and over the 

 ground the golden fruit of the horse-nettle. The 

 privet, laden with black berries, was still green, 

 and the rhododendron and sassafras sprouts were 

 fresh as a bright June morning, and beyond, the 

 gaunt trunks of the walnuts were draped with 

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