“I like them too. They always give me a peculiar sensation of the quiet and shade in which they grew. They are like the Quakers, never surprising you by any gaudy freaks of blossoming. Oh, were any of you here a month ago?”
“I came for rhododendrons one day;” Jennie answered.
“That was what entered my mind. What crowds and crowds of trees! I am generally here in August, so I miss that. How perfectly glorious they must be. What colors?”
“Pure white and pale, blossomy pink.”
“Those are my favorites. I sometimes think I was meant for a country life. I like the growing and blossoming, the ripening and the fruit. Autumn rounds everything so perfectly.”
“Yes,” said Dick, “there is always a great richness in Autumn. The smells of the drying fields, of the stacked corn, the apples and pears and grapes. And the leaves all aglow, the chestnuts full of yellow burrs. You ought to come then, Mr. Ogden!”
“I believe I will. Can we all go nutting? That is after the frosts, though.”
“Yes, late in October.”
“Oh, look!”
We had been going on for a few moments, now we paused again. It was so all the way up. Something to see and to feel, to pause and drink in with all one’s soul. Here a rock sculptured and set as if by an artist hand. Richest moss, great, feathery fronds, pellucid waters, breaks of sunshine, and haunts of deep gloom. Now we were serious, then we laughed gaily at some quick jest. It takes so little to amuse when one is young and happy.