Are leaves of woodbine twining.
When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,
And count like misers, hour by hour,
October's bright blue weather.
On a lovely afternoon our travelers were driving leisurely along through partially cleared woodland. The doctor had proposed that they take this trip in the new automobile. But Mary had declined with great firmness.
“I will not be hurled along the road in October of all months. What fools these mortals be,” she went on. “Last year while driving slowly through the glorious Austrian Tyrol fairly holding my breath with delight, one machine after another whizzed by, the occupants fancying they were ‘doing’ the Tyrol, I dare say.”
Mary looked about her, drinking in deep draughts of the delicious air. The beautifully-tinted leaves upon every tree and bush, the blue haze in the distance and the dreamful melancholy over all, were delightful to her. The fragrance of wild grapes came to them as they emerged from the woods and Mary said, “Couldn't you wait a minute, John, until I go back and find them? I'll bring you some.”
“If you were sick and had sent for a doctor would you like to have him fool around gathering grapes and everything else on his way?”
“No, I wouldn't. I really wouldn't.”