The flower-beds flamed with geraniums and
salvias, and were gay with gladioli, while Amy and Mrs. Clifford exulted
in the extent and variety of their finely quilled and rose-like asters
and dahlias. The foliage of the trees had gained its darkest hues, and
the days passed, one so like another that nature seemed to be taking a
summer siesta.
CHAPTER XLI
A FIRE IN THE MOUNTAINS
A day in August can be as depressing as a typical one in May is
inspiring, or in June entrancing. As the season advanced Nature appeared
to be growing languid and faint. There was neither cloud by day nor dew
at night. The sun burned rather than vivified the earth, and the grass
and herbage withered and shrivelled before its unobstructed rays. The
foliage along the roadsides grew dun-colored from the dust, and those who
rode or drove on thoroughfares were stifled by the irritating clouds that
rose on the slightest provocation. Pleasure could be found only on the
unfrequented lanes that led to the mountains or ran along their bases.
Even there trees that drew their sustenance from soil spread thinly on
the rocks were seen to be dying, their leaves not flushing with autumnal
tints, but hanging limp and bleached as if they had exhaled their vital
juices. The moss beneath them, that had been softer to the tread than a
Persian rug, crumbled into powder under the foot. Alf went to gather
huckleberries, but, except in moist and swampy places, found them
shrivelled on the bushes.
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