THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY 137 



By a summer cottage upon the rocks was 

 a ledge matted over with the Japanese trail- 

 ing white rose. There were no blossoms, of 

 course, but what with the leaves, still of a 

 glossy green, and the bunches of handsome, 

 high-colored hips, the vine could hardly have 

 been more beautiful, I was ready to say, even 

 when the roses were thickest upon it. Be- 

 side another house a pink poppy still looked 

 fresh. Frail, belated child of summer ! I 

 could hardly believe my eyes. All its human 

 admirers were gone long since. Every cot- 

 tage stood vacant. Nobody would live here 

 in this icy wind, if he could find another 

 place to flee to. I remembered Florida 

 beaches, summery abodes, where every breath 

 from the sea brought a welcome coolness. 

 Why should I not take the next train south- 

 ward? Shall a man be less sensible than a 

 bird? 



That was five or six hours ago. Now I 

 am a dozen miles inland. The air is so still 

 that the sifting snowflakes fall straight down- 

 ward. Even the finest twigs of the gray 

 birches, so sensitive to the faintest breath, 

 can hardly be seen to stir. A narrow foot- 



