High overhead ridges of many-peaked cloud—the gleaming, wandering Alps
of the blue ether; outstretched far below, the warming bosom of the
earth, throbbing with the hope of maternity. Two spirits abroad in the
air, encountering each other and passing into one: the spirit of
scentless spring left by melting snows and the spirit of scented summer
born with the earliest buds. The road through the forest one of those
wagon-tracks that were being opened from the clearings of the settlers,
and that wound along beneath trees of which those now seen in Kentucky
are the unworthy survivors—oaks and walnuts, maples and elms, centuries
old, gnarled, massive, drooping, majestic, through whose arches the sun
hurled down only some solitary spear of gold, and over whose gray-mossed
roots some cold brook crept in silence;
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