My First Summer 



must all fall like petals in an orchard, dry 

 and wrinkled, not a wing of all the mighty 

 host left to tingle the air. Nevertheless 

 new myriads will arise in the spring, rejoic- 

 ing, exulting, as if laughing cold death to 

 scorn. 



August 29. --Clouds about .05, slight 

 frost. Bland serene Indian summer weather. 

 Have been gazing all day at the moun- 

 tains, watching the changing lights. More 

 and more plainly are they clothed with light 

 as a garment, white tinged with pale purple, 

 palest during the midday hours, richest in 

 the morning and evening. Everything seems 

 consciously peaceful, thoughtful, faithfully 

 waiting God's will. 



August 30. This day just like yesterday. 

 A few clouds motionless and apparently with 

 no work to do beyond looking beautiful. 

 Frost enough for crystal building, glorious 

 fields of ice-diamonds destined to last but a 

 night. How lavish is Nature building, pull- 

 ing down, creating, destroying, chasing every 



