hill and in the woods just beyond.

The little, old woman who sweeps away the dry leaves from the steps so
ruthlessly, smiled more than usual when I gave her the customary two
pfennigs. I can never understand how the poor creature wages such a
heartless war against these dying leaves of Autumn; it seems that she
should have a sisterly feeling for them, knowing that she is herself so
near to her own December.

The Stations of the Cross are arranged in little shrines on the many
terraces which adorn the castle side of the hill; it is a pretty
thought, bordering the path to the chapel with these stone pictures,
most of them representing Christ's long, weary journey up Mount Calvary.
There are always to be found before these shrines, people, mostly the
peasantry, praying aloud, and here and there many a time I have seen
them ascending the toilsome road on their knees.

What a grand view one has from the summit; the wide Valley of the Maine
not yet brown, but smiling as it always does in its green beauty, far
into December. The lumber rafts are floating lazily down, as it were in
a dream, little thinking that in a few more hours they will have reached
their journey's end, there to be broken. They are like myself somewhat,
who am just as lazily, uselessly and alone wandering through life to the
ending sooner or later; it is hard to go against the stream and the
river is long and lovely, so I will float on just a little farther.

I made a sketch of Würzburg with its many spires and domes, which I
enclose for Benicia, and then turned my attention to the Chapel with
which I am always delighted; the frescoes in the dome are good and I
never tire of sitting and looking up at them while I listen to the dull