MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



of prophetic revelation, might have ushered in a 

 vision of the very Presence itself. In that glori- 

 fied atmosphere the trees that are now ablaze 

 with the brilliant, tangible colors of earth were 

 luminous with a strange, mystical glow a light 

 as from the unseen world. Even the darkest firs 

 shone with the dazzling whiteness, but upon the 

 great solemn pines the forest's high-priests 

 rested the light of the holy of holies. With one 

 of old we felt as if, caught up into paradise, we 

 were listening to " unspeakable words which it is 

 not lawful for a man to utter." Yet upon our 

 mortal ears fell no sound save that of the wind, 

 as it softly swayed the lustrous pine plumes and 

 gently caressed the dying leaves. 



The green of the honeysuckle is still undimmed, 

 you note it will hold its own for many a day to 

 come and the green of the stately English ivy 

 only grows darker and richer with the advance of 

 autumn; but at Jack Frost's free-and-easy touch 

 deep blushes creep over the woodbine, and the 

 blackberry vines wreathe themselves in glowing 

 crimson. 



In the garden, troops of chrysanthemums still 

 defy him, and, in spite of his nipping night 

 breath, frail, delicately tinted, star-like flowers 



[46] 



