“Yes, ma’am. The wind blows it up the gorges. Happen might smell it.”
“I do,” said Anne. “One can hardly see the farther hills.”
“Some men,” said Lyndsay, “fancy that it affects the fishing unfavorably; but two years ago, on the Cascapedia, the water was so saturated with smoke as to be undrinkable, and still the fish rose well. I wanted to study with you again, Rose, the purple color of the dead trees above us; but this smoke will somewhat affect it.”
“Let us get on to the beach, papa.” And in a moment they were seated on a log, Anne lying at ease beside them.
“It gets still more dense, Rose. We must give up the water. Sketch that sprawling dead pine yonder; it seems reeling back, and the one in front looks as if it had just hit it.”
“How droll, Archie!” said Anne. “May I talk, or will it disturb the higher art?”
“No. Talk as much as you like. No one could be cruel enough to deny you the safety-valve of talk.”
“If you had said no, I should have wanted to talk. I am now perversely inclined to silence.”
“It is a self-limited disease with you, Anne.”
“Thank you! I was wondering a little whether you were right about the use of minute observation of nature by the poets. Rose told me what you had said. It was, I think, that Wordsworth was apt to be over-credited with this faculty, and that others have had it far beyond him.”