"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.
"Don't you know Bryant's 'Death of the Flowers,' Rossitur?" said his friend smiling. "What have you been doing all your life?"
"Not studying the fine arts at West Point, Mr. Carleton."
"Then sit down here and let me mend that place in your education. Sit down! and I'll give you something better than woodcock. You keep a game-bag for thoughts, don't you?"
Mr. Rossitur wished Mr. Carleton didn't. But he sat down, however, and listened with an unedified face; while his friend, more to please himself it must be confessed than for any other reason, and perhaps with half a notion to try Fleda, repeated the beautiful words. He presently saw they were not lost upon one of his hearers; she listened intently.
"It is very pretty," said Rossitur when he had done. "I believe I have seen it before somewhere."