across a wide arable country, in a state of high cultivation and now
shewing all the rich variety of autumn. The redish buckwheat patches, and
fine wood tints of the fields where other grain had been; the bright green
of young rye or winter wheat, then soberer coloured pasture or meadow
lands, and ever and anon a tuft of gay woods crowning a rising ground, or
a knot of the everlasting pines looking sedately and steadfastly upon the
fleeting glories of the world around them, these were mingled and
interchanged and succeeded each other in ever-varying fresh combinations.
With its high picturesque beauty the whole scene had a look of thrift and
plenty and promise which made it eminently cheerful. So Mr. Ringgan and
his little granddaughter both felt it to be. For some distance the grounds
on either hand the road were part of the old gentleman's farm; and many a
remark was exchanged between him and Fleda as to the excellence or
hopefulness of this or that crop or piece of soil; Fleda entering into all
his enthusiasm, and reasoning of clover leys and cockle and the proper,
harvesting of Indian corn and other like matters, with no lack of interest
or intelligence.

"O grandpa," she exclaimed suddenly, "won't you stop a minute and let me
get out. I want to get some of that beautiful bittersweet."

"What do you want that for?" said he. "You can't get out very well."

"O yes I can--please, grandpa! I want some of it _very_ much--just
one minute!"

He stopped, and Fleda got out and went to the roadside, where a
bittersweet vine had climbed into a young pine tree and hung it as it were
with red coral. But her one minute was at least four before she had
succeeded in breaking off as much as she could carry of the splendid