S Weir Mitchell

When All the Woods Are Green S Weir Mitchell

The night of summer comes late in this north land. Although it was nearly nine o'clock, the shadows, long gathering in the valleys and the woods, had but just now overflowed onto the broad levels of the river. Above was hurry of low-lying clouds, through which swift star-gleams seemed to flit, like the momentary beacons of the rare fireflies along the shore. Far away the shriek of a departing train broke the general stillness and rang fainter and more faint in wild variety of tones among the farther hills. On the bank of this wide Canadian river, a little above the margin, stood under the yet dripping trees a group of diverse people, but all of one household. Travel-weary and silent, for a time they looked down on the dimly lit stream, and heard, as they waited, the murmur and hum of its waters, or, with eyes as yet unused to the gloom, strove to see the group of men about the boats on the beach below them. "This way, Margaret," said a man's cheerful voice; "take care; there is my arm, dear. How delightful to see the old river!" The night was so dark that Lyndsay hesitated as he stood on the verge. "What is it?" said his wife. "I do not quite like to go up to-night in this depth of darkness. Do you think it quite safe, Polycarp? Can you see?"