176 AT THE NORTH OF BEARCAMP WATER. 
showy color. Now they reared their skeleton 
arms against the sky, making some parts of the 
way seem as desolate as in winter. Many of 
the goldenrods, asters, and immortelles contri¬ 
buted to the wintriness of the scene, for only 
dry white phantoms of their once cheerful flow¬ 
ers remained upon their stalks. The soft air 
with only a trace of cold in it belied these signs 
of winter, and so did the occasional note of a lo¬ 
cust. From the little rustic bridge between the 
large and second lakes, the evening view of the 
mountains was bewitching. If a hermit thrush 
could have sung even one phrase of his holy 
music, I might have felt satisfied; but no bird 
was there to sing, and only the waves lapping 
upon the pebbles and the breeze sighing in the 
pines broke the silence of the sta/lit night. A 
leaf came sailing down the lake and passed un¬ 
der the bridge. Its little life as a green leaf 
was over. It had served the tree which bore 
it, and now its parched body was given to the 
stream to be borne away wherever wind and cur¬ 
rent decided. Was it, then, dead for all time? 
Ask this of the coal which glows in the grate, 
the oil which burns in the lamp, or the may- 
flower whose roots spread through the leaf mould 
in the forest. Where was this leaf a year ago, 
or a century ago? As certainly as the parts of 
this leaf have endured thus far, so certainly will 
