AUTUMN 47 



peculiarly delicate and lovely purplish tint, 

 a real bloom, never seen, 1 think, except on 

 the red maple, and there only after the 

 leaves have begun to curl and fade. Oppo- 

 site it (after whistling in vain for a dog with 

 whom in years past, I have been accustomed 

 to be friendly at one of the houses — he 

 must be dead, or gone, or grown reserved 

 with age), I take the crossroad before men- 

 tioned ; and now, face to face with Lafayette, 

 I stop under a favorite pine tree to enjoy the 

 prospect and the stillness : no sound but the 

 chirping of crickets, the peeping of hylas, 

 and the hardly less musical hammering of a 

 distant carpenter. 



Along the wayside are many gray birches 

 (of the kind called white birches in Massa- 

 chusetts, the kind from which Yankee school- 

 boys snatch a fearful joy by " swinging off " 

 their tops), the only ones I remember about 

 Franconia ; for which reason I sometimes 

 call the road Gray Birch Road; and just 

 beyond them I stop again. Here is a bit for 

 a painter : a lovely vista, such as makes a 

 man wish for a brush and the skill to use it. 

 The road dips into a little hollow, turns 



