known—and not euphemistically—as Do-Drop-Down, which leads him through deep woods to the house . . . But there will be tomorrow and another after that. Weeks of tomorrows!
The Mountain-Lover each year renews his acquaintance with his mountain by lingering degrees; like a lover coquetting with his mistress he dallies over its approaches, taking now this side, now that, seeking out favorite haunts, smiling happily, and content to be smiled on without words at first, as he alternately draws nearer and recedes. The love, the whispered confidence, the delight in nearness all await him, but like an epicure, he at first just sips his pleasure. These early days are like the bouquet on wine.
All last night there was a deluge of June rain; one thunder storm after another. This
