"
It is almost the only game which the trees play at, this
tit-for-tat, now this side in the sun, now that, the drama of the
day. In deep ravines under the eastern sides of cliffs, Night
forwardly plants her foot even at noonday, and as Day retreats
she steps into his trenches, skulking from tree to tree, from
fence to fence, until at last she sits in his citadel and draws
out her forces into the plain. It may be that the forenoon is
brighter than the afternoon, not only because of the greater
transparency of its atmosphere, but because we naturally look
most into the west, as forward into the day, and so in the
forenoon see the sunny side of things, but in the afternoon the
shadow of every tree.
The afternoon is now far advanced, and a fresh and leisurely wind
is blowing over the river, making long reaches of bright ripples.
The river has done its stint, and appears not to flow, but lie at
its length reflecting the light, and the haze over the woods is
like the inaudible panting, or rather the gentle perspiration of
resting nature, rising from a myriad of pores into the attenuated
atmosphere.
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