IN the windless September dawn a voice went singing, a man's
voice, singing a cheap and common air. Yet something in the elan
of it all told he was young, jubilant, and a happy lover.

Above the level belt of timber to the east a vast dome of pale
undazzling gold was rising, silently and swiftly. Jays called in the
thickets where the maples flamed amid the green oaks, with
irregular splashes of red and orange. The grass was crisp with frost
under the feet, the road smooth and gray-white in color, the air was
indescribably sweet, resonant, and stimulating. No wonder the man
sang.

He came Into view around the curve in the lane. He had a fork on
his shoulder, a graceful and polished tool. His straw hat was tilted
on the back of his head, his rough, faded coat was buttoned close
to the chin, and he wore thin buckskin gloves on his hands. He
looked muscular and intelligent, and was evidently about
twenty-two or -three years of age.

As he walked on, and the sunrise came nearer to him, he stopped
his song. The broadening heavens had a majesty and sweetness
that made him forget the physical joy of happy youth. He grew
almost sad with the great vague thoughts and emotions which
rolled in his brain as the wonder of the morning grew.

He walked more slowly, mechanically following the road, his eyes
on the ever-shifting streaming banners of rose and pale green,
which made the east too glorious for any words to tell. The air was
so still it seemed to await expectantly the coming of the sun.