On every hillside, in every valley and
glen, the leaves that had made the summer landscape beautiful,
lay contentedly:
"Where the rain might rain upon them,
Where the sun might shine upon them,
Where the wind might sigh upon them,
And the snow might die upon them."
Brown, withered, dead, buried in snow they might be, yet they
were ministering to all the leaves of the next spring-time,
bequeathing to them in turn the beauty that had been theirs; the
leafy canopies for countless song birds, the grateful shade for
man and beast.
Young love thought little of Nature's miracles, and hearts that
beat high and fast were warm enough to forget the bleak wind and
gathering clouds. If there were naked trees, were there not full
barrels of apples in every cellar? If there was nothing but
stubble in the frozen fields, why, there was plenty of wheat and
corn at the mill all ready for grinding. The cold air made one
long for a cheery home and fireside, the crackle of a hearth-log,
the bubbling of a steaming kettle; and Patty and Mark clung
together as they walked along, making bright images of a life
together, snug, warm, and happy.
Patty was a capricious creature, but all her changes were sudden
and endearing ones, captivating those who loved her more than a
monotonous and unchanging virtue.
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