AUTUMN 17 



of all is the place itself : the solitude, the 

 brooding sky (the lake's own, it seems to be), 

 the solemn mountain top, the encircling for- 

 est, the musical woodsy stillness. The rowan 

 trees were never so bright with berries. 

 Here and there one still holds full of green 

 leaves, with the ripe red clusters shining 

 everywhere among them. 



After luncheon I must sit for a while in 

 the forest itself. Every breath in the tree- 

 tops, unfelt at my level, brings down a 

 sprinkling of yellow birch leaves, each with 

 a faint rustle, like a whispered good-by, as 

 it strikes against the twigs in its fall. 

 Every one preaches its sermon, and I know 

 the text, "We all do fade." May the 

 rest of us be as happy as the leaves, and 

 fade only when the time is ripe. A nut- 

 hatch, busy with his day's work, passes near 

 me. Small as he is, I hear his wing-beats. 

 A squirrel jumps upon the very log on which 

 I am seated, but is off in a jiffy on catching 

 sight of so unexpected a neighbor. So short 

 a log is not big enough for two of us, he 

 thinks. By and by I hear a bird stirring 

 on a branch overhead, and look up to find 



