A FRINGED GENTIAN 



masculine whimsies. All that is worth telling at 

 this time is, that when I reached the spot where 

 the Doctor and I had sat down, October had 

 changed her tune and her dress. It was late in 

 the afternoon, and the sky was filled up with what 

 Keats calls &quot; herded elephants slow moving in the 

 west,&quot; and low down, where the sun struck 

 through, they were caparisoned in gold brocade 

 and carried flaming plunder. It was dismal 

 enough. The color was all out of the meadow, 

 save where the pools seemed to wink their blood 

 shot eyes at us, as the stiff wind swayed the 

 huckleberry bushes. Griselle wound her wrap 

 about her and seemed to retire within it. Only 

 her face was visible, and that wore an inquiring 

 and somewhat vacuous look. 



It gave me a numb feeling of despair. And 

 yet as she stood there, wound about as if by the 

 wind, I could not help saying to myself, &quot;The 

 fringed gentian.&quot; 



r 9 i 



