You may never know what scarlet10 and crimson11 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 carnival12 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 joyously13. 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 misty14 hills.
It was Saturday and Peter had gone home; Felix and Dan were helping15 Uncle Alec top turnips16; 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 futures18. 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 possessed19 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 lasting20 than that formed by the mutual21 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 overflow22 beyond it into many a valley purple-folded in immemorial peace,” answered Uncle Blair. “I have a fancy for one more ramble23 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. Joyful24 sounds will ‘come ringing down the wind;’ a wealth of gypsy gold will be ours for the gathering25; we will learn the potent26, unutterable charm of a dim spruce wood and the grace of flexile mountain ashes fringing a lonely glen; we will tryst27 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 idyllic28 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 sylvan29 calm of those dear places which seemed that day to be full of a great friendliness30; 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 knack31 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, winding32 little path quite by accident—if, indeed, there can be such a thing as accident in the woods, where I am tempted33 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 veins34 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 lone17 ways of the sea, we shall yet be drawn35 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 boughs36. “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 converse37 with pines, to whisper secrets with the poplars, to listen to the tales of old romance that beeches38 have to tell, to walk in eloquent40 silence with self-contained firs, is to learn what real companionship is. Besides, trees are the same all over the world. A beech39 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, chattering41 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 denizens42. But after all, there is a certain shrill43 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 gaily44. “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 chasm45 he cleared seemed as wide and deep to him as Niagara Gorge5 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 enchanted46 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 extravagant47 wish—a very wish of youth,” commented Uncle Blair, “and yet in spite of its extravagance, a wish that will come true if you are true to yourselves. In that case, every day WILL be better than all that went before—but there will be many days, dear lad and lass, when you will not believe it.”
We did not understand him, but we knew Uncle Blair never explained his meaning. When asked it he was wont48 to answer with a smile, “Some day you’ll grow to it. Wait for that.” So we addressed ourselves to follow the brook49 that stole away from the spring in its windings50 and doublings and tricky51 surprises.
“A brook,” quoth Uncle Blair, “is the most changeful, bewitching, lovable thing in the world. It is never in the same mind or mood two minutes. Here it is sighing and murmuring as if its heart were broken. But listen—yonder by the birches it is laughing as if it were enjoying some capital joke all by itself.”
It was indeed a changeful brook; here it would make a pool, dark and brooding and still, where we bent52 to look at our mirrored faces; then it grew communicative and gossiped shallowly over a broken pebble53 bed where there was a diamond dance of sunbeams and no troutling or minnow could glide54 through without being seen. Sometimes its banks were high and steep, hung with slender ashes and birches; again they were mere55, low margins56, green with delicate mosses57, shelving out of the wood. Once it came to a little precipice58 and flung itself over undauntedly in an indignation of foam59, gathering itself up rather dizzily among the mossy stones below. It was some time before it got over its vexation; it went boiling and muttering along, fighting with the rotten logs that lie across it, and making far more fuss than was necessary over every root that interfered60 with it. We were getting tired of its ill-humour and talked of leaving it, when it suddenly grew sweet-tempered again, swooped61 around a curve—and presto62, we were in fairyland.
It was a little dell far in the heart of the woods. A row of birches fringed the brook, and each birch seemed more exquisitely63 graceful64 and golden than her sisters. The woods receded65 from it on every hand, leaving it lying in a pool of amber66 sunshine. The yellow trees were mirrored in the placid67 stream, with now and then a leaf falling on the water, mayhap to drift away and be used, as Uncle Blair suggested, by some adventurous68 wood sprite who had it in mind to fare forth69 to some far-off, legendary70 region where all the brooks71 ran into the sea.
“Oh, what a lovely place!” I exclaimed, looking around me with delight.
“A spell of eternity72 is woven over it, surely,” murmured Uncle Blair. “Winter may not touch it, or spring ever revisit it. It should be like this for ever.”
“Let us never come here again,” said the Story Girl softly, “never, no matter how often we may be in Carlisle. Then we will never see it changed or different. We can always remember it just as we see it now, and it will be like this for ever for us.”
While he sketched74 it the Story Girl and I sat on the banks of the brook and she told me the story of the Sighing Reed. It was a very simple little story, that of the slender brown reed which grew by the forest pool and always was sad and sighing because it could not utter music like the brook and the birds and the winds. All the bright, beautiful things around it mocked it and laughed at it for its folly75. Who would ever look for music in it, a plain, brown, unbeautiful thing? But one day a youth came through the wood; he was as beautiful as the spring; he cut the brown reed and fashioned it according to his liking76; and then he put it to his lips and breathed on it; and, oh, the music that floated through the forest! It was so entrancing that everything—brooks and birds and winds—grew silent to listen to it. Never had anything so lovely been heard; it was the music that had for so long been shut up in the soul of the sighing reed and was set free at last through its pain and suffering.
I had heard the Story Girl tell many a more dramatic tale; but that one stands out for me in memory above them all, partly, perhaps, because of the spot in which she told it, partly because it was the last one I was to hear her tell for many years—the last one she was ever to tell me on the golden road.
When Uncle Blair had finished his sketch the shafts77 of sunshine were turning crimson and growing more and more remote; the early autumn twilight78 was falling over the woods. We left our dell, saying good-bye to it for ever, as the Story Girl had suggested, and we went slowly homeward through the fir woods, where a haunting, indescribable odour stole out to meet us.
“There is magic in the scent79 of dying fir,” Uncle Blair was saying aloud to himself, as if forgetting he was not quite alone. “It gets into our blood like some rare, subtly-compounded wine, and thrills us with unutterable sweetnesses, as of recollections from some other fairer life, lived in some happier star. Compared to it, all other scents80 seem heavy and earth-born, luring81 to the valleys instead of the heights. But the tang of the fir summons onward82 and upward to some ‘far-off, divine event’—some spiritual peak of attainment83 whence we shall see with unfaltering, unclouded vision the spires84 of some aerial City Beautiful, or the fulfilment of some fair, fadeless land of promise.”
He was silent for a moment, then added in a lower tone,
“Felicity, you loved the scent of dying fir. If you were here tonight with me—Felicity—Felicity!”
Something in his voice made me suddenly sad. I was comforted when I felt the Story Girl slip her hand into mine. So we walked out of the woods into the autumn dusk.
We were in a little valley. Half-way up the opposite slope a brush fire was burning clearly and steadily85 in a maple grove86. There was something indescribably alluring87 in that fire, glowing so redly against the dark background of forest and twilit hill.
“Let us go to it,” cried Uncle Blair, gaily, casting aside his sorrowful mood and catching88 our hands. “A wood fire at night has a fascination89 not to be resisted by those of mortal race. Hasten—we must not lose time.”
“Oh, it will burn a long time yet,” I gasped90, for Uncle Blair was whisking us up the hill at a merciless rate.
“You can’t be sure. It may have been lighted by some good, honest farmer-man, bent on tidying up his sugar orchard91, but it may also, for anything we know, have been kindled92 by no earthly woodman as a beacon93 or summons to the tribes of fairyland, and may vanish away if we tarry.”
It did not vanish and presently we found ourselves in the grove. It was very beautiful; the fire burned with a clear, steady glow and a soft crackle; the long arcades94 beneath the trees were illuminated95 with a rosy radiance, beyond which lurked96 companies of gray and purple shadows. Everything was very still and dreamy and remote.
“It is impossible that out there, just over the hill, lies a village of men, where tame household lamps are shining,” said Uncle Blair.
“I feel as if we must be thousands of miles away from everything we’ve ever known,” murmured the Story Girl.
“So you are!” said Uncle Blair emphatically. “You’re back in the youth of the race—back in the beguilement97 of the young world. Everything is in this hour—the beauty of classic myths, the primal98 charm of the silent and the open, the lure99 of mystery. Why, it’s a time and place when and where everything might come true—when the men in green might creep out to join hands and dance around the fire, or dryads steal from their trees to warm their white limbs, grown chilly100 in October frosts, by the blaze. I wouldn’t be much surprised if we should see something of the kind. Isn’t that the flash of an ivory shoulder through yonder gloom? And didn’t you see a queer little elfin face peering at us around that twisted gray trunk? But one can’t be sure. Mortal eyesight is too slow and clumsy a thing to match against the flicker101 of a pixy-litten fire.”
Hand in hand we wandered through that enchanted place, seeking the folk of elf-land, “and heard their mystic voices calling, from fairy knoll102 and haunted hill.” Not till the fire died down into ashes did we leave the grove. Then we found that the full moon was gleaming lustrously103 from a cloudless sky across the valley. Between us and her stretched up a tall pine, wondrously104 straight and slender and branchless to its very top, where it overflowed105 in a crest106 of dark boughs against the silvery splendour behind it. Beyond, the hill farms were lying in a suave107, white radiance.
“Doesn’t it seem a long, long time to you since we left home this afternoon?” asked the Story Girl. “And yet it is only a few hours.”
Only a few hours—true; yet such hours were worth a cycle of common years untouched by the glory and the dream.
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1
auroral
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| adj.曙光的；玫瑰色的 | |
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galaxy
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| n.星系；银河系；一群(杰出或著名的人物) | |
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hazes
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| n.（烟尘等的）雾霭( haze的名词复数 )；迷蒙；迷糊；（尤指热天引起的）薄雾v.（使）笼罩在薄雾中( haze的第三人称单数 )；戏弄，欺凌（新生等，有时作为加入美国大学生联谊会的条件） | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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futures
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| n.期货，期货交易 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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40
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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42
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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46
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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47
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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49
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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50
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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51
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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52
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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54
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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presto
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| adv.急速地；n.急板乐段；adj.急板的 | |
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63
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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64
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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65
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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66
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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67
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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68
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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69
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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71
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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72
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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73
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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74
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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75
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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77
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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78
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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79
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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80
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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81
luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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82
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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83
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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84
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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85
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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86
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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87
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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88
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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89
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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90
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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92
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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93
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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94
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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95
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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96
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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97
beguilement
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| n.欺骗，散心，欺瞒 | |
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98
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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99
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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100
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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101
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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102
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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103
lustrously
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| adv.光亮地；有光泽地；灿烂地 | |
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104
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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105
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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106
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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107
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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