THE VINTAGE OF THE LEAVES . 177 
they continue to endure in ages to come. It 
seems equally sure that if there is a something 
in me which will not and cannot in time be 
made into leaves to wither and go down-stream 
with the wind, then that something will neces¬ 
sarily have as good a chance as the leaf to go 
down a stream of its own and bring up safely 
where it can be used again in endless cycles. 
The voices of young chickens awoke me next 
morning, and mingling with their melancholy 
peeping came the wailing of a northeast wind as 
it struggled through a window crack. Bed was 
warm and my watch said it was only six o’clock. 
I peeped through my blinds and saw that the 
piazza roof seemed to be shining with rain. 
Nothing but the momentum of a previous de¬ 
termination to open my shutters led my finger 
to press the snap and let the wind swing the 
blind from me; for by the dismal shining of the 
rain my mind had been completely robbed of 
any wish to see the sky. The blind slammed 
against the clapboards and a bewildering sea of 
color surged across my vision. Instead of a 
waste of gray mist and dull wet field, I saw six 
mountains set against a silver sky; and rolling 
from them towards me, line after line of wave- 
like wooded ridges and pasture slopes, each 
more brilliant in coloring than the last. The 
sunlight was just touching a solitary cloud 
