October that year gathered up all the spilled sunshine of the summer and clad herself in it as in a garment. The Story Girl had asked us to try to make the last month together beautiful, and Nature seconded our efforts, giving us that most beautiful of beautiful things—a gracious and perfect moon of falling leaves. There was not in all that vanished October one day that did not come in with splendour and go out attended by a fair of evening stars—not a day when there were not golden lights in the wide pastures and purple in the distances. Never was anything so gorgeous as the trees that year. are trees that have primeval fire in their souls. It glows out a little in their early youth, before the leaves open, in the redness and -yellowness of their blossoms, but in summer it is carefully hidden under a , silver-lined greenness. Then when autumn comes, the maples give up trying to be sober and flame out in all the barbaric splendour and gorgeousness of their real nature, making of the hills things out of an Arabian Nights dream in the golden prime of good Haroun Alraschid.
You may never know what and really are until you see them in their perfection on an October hillside, under the unfathomable blue of an autumn sky. All the glow and radiance and joy at earth’s heart seem to have broken loose in a splendid determination to express itself for once before the frost of winter chills her beating pulses. It is the year’s ere the dull Lenten days of leafless valleys and penitential mists come.
The time of apple-picking had come around once more and we worked . Uncle Blair picked apples with us, and between him and the Story Girl it was an October never to be forgotten.
“Will you go far afield for a walk with me to-day?” he said to her and me, one idle afternoon of opal skies, pied meadows and hills.
It was Saturday and Peter had gone home; Felix and Dan were Uncle Alec top ; Cecily and Felicity were making cookies for Sunday, so the Story Girl and I were alone in Uncle Stephen’s Walk.
We liked to be alone together that last month, to think the long, long thoughts of youth and talk about our . There had grown up between us that summer a bond of sympathy that did not exist between us and the others. We were older than they—the Story Girl was fifteen and I was nearly that; and all at once it seemed as if we were immeasurably older than the rest, and of dreams and visions and forward-reaching hopes which they could not possibly share or understand. At times we were still children, still interested in childish things. But there came hours when we seemed to our two selves very grown up and old, and in those hours we talked our dreams and visions and hopes, vague and splendid, as all such are, over together, and so began to build up, out of the rainbow fragments of our childhood’s companionship, that rare and beautiful friendship which was to last all our lives, enriching and enstarring them. For there is no bond more than that formed by the confidences of that magic time when youth is slipping from the sheath of childhood and beginning to wonder what lies for it beyond those misty hills that bound the golden road.
“Where are you going?” asked the Story Girl.
“To ‘the woods that belt the gray hillside’—ay, and beyond it into many a valley purple-folded in immemorial peace,” answered Uncle Blair. “I have a fancy for one more in Prince Edward Island woods before I leave Canada again. But I would not go alone. So come, you two gay youthful things to whom all life is yet fair and good, and we will seek the path to Arcady. There will be many little things along our way to make us glad. sounds will ‘come ringing down the wind;’ a wealth of gypsy gold will be ours for the ; we will learn the , unutterable charm of a dim spruce wood and the grace of flexile mountain ashes fringing a lonely glen; we will with the folk of fur and feather; we’ll hearken to the music of gray old firs. Come, and you’ll have a ramble and an afternoon that you will both remember all your lives.”
We did have it; never has its remembrance faded; that afternoon of roving in the old Carlisle woods with the Story Girl and Uncle Blair gleams in my book of years, a page of living beauty. Yet it was but a few hours of simplest pleasure; we wandered pathlessly through the calm of those dear places which seemed that day to be full of a great ; Uncle Blair sauntered along behind us, whistling softly; sometimes he talked to himself; we delighted in those brief reveries of his; Uncle Blair was the only man I have ever known who could, when he so willed, “talk like a book,” and do it without seeming ridiculous; perhaps it was because he had the of choosing “fit audience, though few,” and the proper time to appeal to that audience.
We went across the fields, intending to skirt the woods at the back of Uncle Alec’s farm and find a lane that cut through Uncle Roger’s woods; but before we came to it we stumbled on a sly, little path quite by accident—if, indeed, there can be such a thing as accident in the woods, where I am to think we are led by the Good People along such of their fairy ways as they have a mind for us to walk in.
“Go to, let us explore this,” said Uncle Blair. “It always drags terribly at my heart to go past a wood lane if I can make any excuse at all for traversing it: for it is the by-ways that lead to the heart of the woods and we must follow them if we would know the forest and be known of it. When we can really feel its wild heart beating against ours its subtle life will steal into our and make us its own for ever, so that no matter where we go or how wide we wander in the noisy ways of cities or over the ways of the sea, we shall yet be back to the forest to find our most enduring kinship.”
“I always feel so SATISFIED in the woods,” said the Story Girl dreamily, as we turned in under the low-swinging fir . “Trees seem such friendly things.”
“They are the most friendly things in God’s good creation,” said Uncle Blair emphatically. “And it is so easy to live with them. To hold with pines, to whisper secrets with the poplars, to listen to the tales of old romance that have to tell, to walk in silence with self-contained firs, is to learn what real companionship is. Besides, trees are the same all over the world. A tree on the slopes of the Pyrenees is just what a beech tree here in these Carlisle woods is; and there used to be an old pine hereabouts whose twin brother I was well acquainted with in a dell among the Apennines. Listen to those squirrels, will you, over yonder. Did you ever hear such a fuss over nothing? Squirrels are the gossips and busybodies of the woods; they haven’t learned the fine reserve of its other . But after all, there is a certain friendliness in their greeting.”
“They seem to be scolding us,” I said, laughing.
“Oh, they are not half such scolds as they sound,” answered Uncle Blair . “If they would but ‘tak a thought and mend’ their shrew-like ways they would be dear, lovable creatures enough.”
“If I had to be an animal I think I’d like to be a squirrel,” said the Story Girl. “It must be next best thing to flying.”
“Just see what a spring that fellow gave,” laughed Uncle Blair. “And now listen to his song of triumph! I suppose that he cleared seemed as wide and deep to him as Niagara would to us if we leaped over it. Well, the wood people are a happy folk and very well satisfied with themselves.”
Those who have followed a dim, winding, balsamic path to the unexpected hollow where a wood-spring lies have found the rarest secret the forest can reveal. Such was our good fortune that day. At the end of our path we found it, under the pines, a crystal-clear thing with lips unkissed by so much as a stray sunbeam.
“It is easy to dream that this is one of the haunted springs of old romance,” said Uncle Blair. “‘Tis an spot this, I am very sure, and we should go softly, speaking low, lest we disturb the rest of a white, wet naiad, or break some spell that has cost long years of mystic weaving.”
“It’s so easy to believe things in the woods,” said the Story Girl, shaping a cup from a bit of golden-brown birch bark and filling it at the spring.
“Drink a toast in that water, Sara,” said Uncle Blair. “There’s not a doubt that it has some potent quality of magic in it and the wish you wish over it will come true.”
The Story Girl lifted her golden-hued flagon to her red lips. Her hazel eyes laughed at us over the brim.
“Here’s to our futures,” she cried, “I wish that every day of our lives may be better than the one that went before.”
“An wish—a very wish of youth,” commented Uncle Blair, “and yet in spite of its ext............