There are some people in this merry world of ours who, when they
take up the evening paper, turn first to the day's death notices; who
see no sermons in the bright flowers, the birds and butterflies, the
misty blue hills, the sunshine, who read no lesson in beauty, who
recognize no message in the moon and the stars, in cheerfulness and
good humor. On the contrary, they seem to abhor the sunshine; they
keep their parlors for ever in musty darkness, a kind of tomb where
they place funeral wreaths under glass globes and enter but half a
dozen times a year. Well, even these had finally dragged themselves
away from the grave, and left Warrington standing alone beside the
brown roll of damp fresh earth. No carriage awaited him, for he had
signified his intention of walking home.
All about him the great elms and maples and oaks showed crisp against
the pale summer sky. Occasionally a leaf fell. A red squirrel
chattered above him, and an oriole sang shrilly and joyously near by.
The sun was reddening in the west, and below, almost at his feet, the
valley swam in a haze of delicate amethyst.
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