There
are a few days when the world seems to hang still in a dreaming,
sweet hush, at the very fulness of the fruit before the decline
sets in. I have no words (like Andrew) to describe it, but every
autumn for years I have noticed it. I remember that sometimes at
the farm I used to lean over the wood pile for a moment just before
supper to watch those purple October sunsets. I would hear the sharp
ting of Andrew's little typewriter bell as he was working in his
study. And then I would try to swallow down within me the beauty
and wistfulness of it all, and run back to mash the potatoes.
Peg drew Parnassus along the backward road with a merry little
rumble. I think she knew we were going back to the Professor.
Bock careered mightily along the wayside. And I had much time for
thinking. On the whole, I was glad; for I had much to ponder. An
adventure that had started as a mere lark or whim had now become for
me the very gist of life itself. I was fanciful, I guess, and as
romantic as a young hen, but by the bones of George Eliot, I'm sorry
for the woman that never has a chance to be fanciful.
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