The Heart of Monadnock
135
VII
It was Sunday. Perhaps The Mountain-Lover only fancied it but it seemed to him that everything on the mountain knew what day it was. Down in the world below Sunday might be a hurrying, bustling day, where one turned but from one set of activities to another, but up here in this remoteness he thought that all the flitting birds and chattering squirrels, the velvet blueberries and the scarlet cranberries, the cushiony moss and the rock-ferns and the ruby bunchberries making their violent carpet of flame and green, and every dancing leaf and every shiny needle and brown-scaled cone—all knew and shouted out the Day. A special day. A day of peace.
