He who hears the rippling of rivers in
these degenerate days will not utterly despair. That night was
the turning-point in the season. We had gone to bed in summer,
and we awoke in autumn; for summer passes into autumn in some
unimaginable point of time, like the turning of a leaf.
We found our boat in the dawn just as we had left it, and as if
waiting for us, there on the shore, in autumn, all cool and
dripping with dew, and our tracks still fresh in the wet sand
around it, the fairies all gone or concealed. Before five
o'clock we pushed it into the fog, and, leaping in, at one shove
were out of sight of the shores, and began to sweep downward with
the rushing river, keeping a sharp lookout for rocks. We could
see only the yellow gurgling water, and a solid bank of fog on
every side, forming a small yard around us. We soon passed the
mouth of the Souhegan, and the village of Merrimack, and as the
mist gradually rolled away, and we were relieved from the trouble
of watching for rocks, we saw by the flitting clouds, by the
first russet tinge on the hills, by the rushing river, the
cottages on shore, and the shore itself, so coolly fresh and
shining with dew, and later in the day, by the hue of the
grape-vine, the goldfinch on the willow, the flickers flying in
flocks, and when we passed near enough to the shore, as we
fancied, by the faces of men, that the Fall had commenced.
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