But Colin did not die. He is once more painting out in the sun, and next year we plan to stand again on that very spot by the Susquehanna, and watch the shadows of great fishes gliding through the dreamy water, and the mud-turtle with her trail of little ones moving from rock to rock—and then we shall strike out on the road again, just where we left off that October afternoon; but the reader need not be afraid—we shall not write a book about it.
ENVOI
_And now the merry way we took Is nothing but a printed book;
We would you had been really there,
Out with us in the open air—
For, after all, the best of words
Are but a poor exchange for birds.
Yet if, perchance, this book of ours
Should sometimes make you think of flowers,
Orchards and barns and harvest wain,
"It was not written all in vain—"
So authors used to make their bow,
As, Gentle Reader, we do now_.