When they were about over-against the middle of the valley, Mr. Carleton suddenly made a pause and stood for some minutes silently looking. His two companions came to a halt on either side of him, one not a little pleased, the other a little impatient.
"Beautiful!" Mr. Carleton said, at length.
"Yes," said Fleda, gravely, "I think it's a pretty place. I like it up here."
"We sha'n't catch many woodcock among these pines," said young
Rossitur.
"I wonder," said Mr. Carleton, presently, "how any one should have called these 'melancholy days.' "
"Who has?" said Rossitur.
"A countryman of yours," said his friend, glancing at him. "If he had been a countryman of mine there would have been less marvel. But here is none of the sadness of decay none of the withering if the tokens of old age are seen at all it is in the majestic honours that crown a glorious life the graces of a matured and ripened character. This has nothing in common, Rossitur, with those dull moralists who are always dinning decay and death into one's ears; this speaks of Life. Instead of freezing all one's hopes and energies, it quickens the pulse with the desire to do. 'The saddest of the year' Bryant was wrong."
"Bryant? oh!" said young Rossitur; "I didn't know who you were speaking of."
"I believe, now I think of it, he was writing of a somewhat later time of the year, I don't know how all this will look in November."
"I think it is very pleasant in November," said little Fleda, sedately.