The Road to Dumbiedykes 



such scenes with all-compelling force. 

 So let us be thankful that we live in a 

 latitude where Nature resets her stage 

 so frequently that we do not tire of 

 one great act before another is upon us. 

 As winter drags on to its close the 

 lure of the vernal sun is well-nigh 

 irresistible. Most of those who are 

 compelled to pass their days in the 

 man-built town are then moved by 

 some instinct latent in every human 

 breast to seek the God-built temples 

 of the out-of-doors, but as the spring- 

 time leads us forward into golden 

 summer days and deep-fruited autumn 

 follows on to crown the harvest of the 

 year, the killing frosts cut down the 

 transient beauties of the fields and 

 drive us back again upon ourselves. 

 And yet I never quite subscribe to 

 the poetic proposition that now 



The melancholy days have come 

 The saddest of the year. 



What is there "melancholy" about 

 complete fulfillment of a promise? 

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