COLORS--A CONTRAST
Such a play of colors and lights, different seasons, different hours
of the day--the lines of the far horizon where the faint-tinged edge
of the landscape loses itself in the sky. As I slowly hobble up the
lane toward day-close, an incomparable sunset shooting in molten
sapphire and gold, shaft after shaft, through the ranks of the
long-leaved corn, between me and the west. _Another day_--The
rich dark green of the tulip-trees and the oaks, the gray of the
swamp-willows, the dull hues of the sycamores and black-walnuts,
the emerald of the cedars (after rain,) and the light yellow of the
beeches.
NOVEMBER 8, '76
The forenoon leaden and cloudy, not cold or wet, but indicating both.
As I hobble down here and sit by the silent pond, how different from
the excitement amid which, in the cities, millions of people are now
waiting news of yesterday's Presidential election, or receiving and
discussing the result--in this secluded place uncared-for, unknown.
CROWS AND CROWS
_Nov. 14_.--As I sit here by the creek, resting after my walk, a warm
languor bathes me from the sun. No sound but a cawing of crows, and no
motion but their black flying figures from over-head, reflected in
the mirror of the pond below. Indeed a principal feature of the scene
to-day is these crows, their incessant cawing, far or near, and their
countless flocks and processions moving from place to place, and at
times almost darkening the air with their myriads.
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