ffee, and Colin was filling his little pipe. "A daring work of art, a fantastic tour

no more May-apples and strawberries this year," he finished, with a sigh, a

ural things-bugs and birds, all wildwood creatures-had passed into him with unconscious absorption. A sort of boyish unconsciousness, indeed, was the keynote and charm of his nature. A less sophisticated creature never followed the mystic calling of art. Fortunately for me, he was not one of those painters who understand and expound their own work. On the contrary, he was a perfect child about it, and painted for no more mysterious reason than that his eye delighted in beautiful natural effects, and that he l

th silver the darkness of the glen, and flood the hill

e of this moon," he

went out into the night, he one way and I ano

ght. "How on earth did you do it?" I said. "It is as though you had d

"I know better. But wher

doing," I

lines you wrote a wee

lready,' do

es

the lines

eady, Septe

ng day and i

usy with next

ready for next

and tossing tre

he Summer's s

e leaves in t

he wintry gro

ovember an

t of Summer

flower in a

the soft e

he rest of t