APPLE ORCHARD IN FULL FRUIT 115 
porary intervals and forbade distinctness were 
straggling up betimes over the mountains and 
smoked up along ““T’other mountain” and made 
its ascent at times at a leisurely pace as being 
native here, and having other days and needing 
not to do all its mountain climbing in one day 
as I mine. A fog always lures me like a hidden 
voice of wood thrush while the dark begins. I 
like not too glaring spectacles. Calm and quiet 
tints are to my mind, save fall in leaf splendor, 
or the drench of sunset and afterglow on waters 
when there is “a sea of glass mingled with fire.” 
I like the glory then; but rather modest tints 
like the shot silk luster on a mourning dove’s 
wedding gown. And there is a half dusk in a 
fog. It diffuses itself idly but surely and con- 
ceals so as to give wings to imagination and 
invitation to expectation. In fine, I like it and 
I love it. Had I arranged this scenario to my 
liking, I had had one less satisfying to my heart 
than what I had. God goes beyond our imagin- 
ings. He is always going a little further than 
our largest expectations. We cannot outrun 
him though our feet be sandaled with the light- 
nings. His slowness is swifter than our breathless 
speed. 
I am content. The misty morning veiled the 
day. Expectation laid finger on the speaking 
lips. We were haunted for a word. The apple 
orchard is not more visible than in the dusk but 
was surely near. The apple breath spread through 
