Volume I Part 7 (2/2)
”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.
”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 woodc.o.c.k. 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.”
”There is no 'smoky light' to-day,” said Fleda.
”No,” said Mr. Carleton, smiling to himself. ”Nothing but that could improve the beauty of all this, Miss Fleda.”
”_I_ like it better as it is,” said Fleda.
”I am surprised at that,” said young Rossitur. ”I thought you lived on smoke.”
There was nothing in the words, but the tone was not exactly polite. Fleda granted him neither smile nor look.
”I am glad you like it up here,” she went on, gravely doing the honours of the place. ”I came this way because we shouldn't have so many fences to climb.”
”You are the best little guide possible, and I have no doubt would always lead one the right way,” said Mr. Carleton.
Again the same gentle, kind, _appreciating_ look. Fleda unconsciously drew a step nearer. There was a certain undefined confidence established between them.
”There's a little brook down there in spring,” said she, pointing to a small, gra.s.s-grown water-course in the meadow, hardly discernible from the height, ? ”but there's no water in it now. It runs quite full for a while after the snow breaks up; but it dries away by June or July.”
”What are those trees so beautifully tinged with red and orange, down there by the fence in the meadow?”
”I am not woodsman enough to inform you,” replied Rossitur.
”Those are maples,” said Fleda ? ”sugar maples. The one all orange is a hickory.”
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