"I think it is very pleasant in November," said little Fleda sedately.

"Don't you know Bryant's 'Death of the Flowers,' Rossitur?" said his
friend smiling. "What have you been doing all your life?"

"Not studying the fine arts at West Point, Mr. Carleton."

"Then sit down here and let me mend that place in your education. Sit
down! and I'll give you something better than woodcock. You keep a
game-bag for thoughts, don't you?"

Mr. Rossitur wished Mr. Carleton didn't. But he sat down, however, and
listened with an unedified face; while his friend, more to please himself
it must be confessed than for any other reason, and perhaps with half a
notion to try Fleda, repeated the beautiful words. He presently saw they
were not lost upon one of his hearers; she listened intently.

"It is very pretty," said Rossitur when he had done. "I believe I have
seen it before somewhere."

"There is no 'smoky light' to day," said Fleda.

"No," said Mr. Carleton, smiling to himself. "Nothing but that could
improve the beauty of all this, Miss Fleda."

"_I_ like it better as it is," said Fleda.

"I am surprised at that," said young Rossitur. "I thought you lived
on smoke."