The white
frosts shine like changing silk in the fields of late-growing clover;
the river-mists curl, and idle along the bosom of the water, and creep
up the hill-sides, and at noon float their feathery vapors aloft in
clouds; the crimson trees blaze in the side valleys, and blend their
vermilion tints under the fairy hands of our American frost-painters
with the dark blood of the ash-trees and the orange-tinted oaks. Blue
and bright under the clear Fall heaven, the broad river shines before
the surging prow of the boat like a shield of steel.
The bracing air lights up rich dreams of life. Your fancy peoples the
valleys and the hill-tops with its creations; and your hope lends some
crowning beauty of the landscape to your dreamy future. The vision of
your last college year is not gone. That figure, whose elegance your
eyes then feasted on, still floats before you; and the memory of the
last talk with Laura is as vivid as if it were only yesterday that you
listened. Indeed this opening campaign of travel--although you are half
ashamed to confess it to yourself--is guided by the thought of her.
Dalton with a party of friends, his sister among them, is journeying to
the north.
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