“In Paris he would have been a great man,” Henry replied.

They got off at a milk station and strolled along a road.  A piece of newspaper fluttered on the ground in front of them.

“There is just enough of a breeze to stir a scandal,” said Richmond, treading upon the paper.

“When I find a newspaper in an out-of-the-way place,” Henry replied, “I fancy that the world has lost one of its visiting-cards.”

They stopped at a farm-house, engaged a boat, and then went down to the lake.  Nature wore a thoughtful, contemplative smile, and the lake was a dimple.  A flawless day; an Indian summer day, gauzed with a glowing haze.  And the smaller trees, in recognition of this grape-juice time of year, had adorned themselves in red.  October, the sweetest and mellowest stanza in God Almighty’s poem—­the dreamy, lulling lines between hot Summer’s passion and Winter’s cold severity.  On the train they had been boys, but now they were men, looking at the tranquil, listening to the immortal.

“Did you speak?” Henry asked.

“No,” said Richmond, “it was October.”

They floated out on the lake.  Mud-hens, in their midsummer fluttering, had woven the rushes into a Gobelin tapestry.  The deep notes of the old frog were hushed, but in an out-of-the-way nook the youngster was trying his voice on the water-dog.  A dragon-fly lighted on a stake and flashed a sunbeam from his bedazzled wing; and a bright bug, like a streak of blue flame, zigzagged his way across the smooth water.

An hour passed.  “They won’t bite,” said Richmond.  “In this pervading dreaminess they have forgotten their materialism.”

“Probably they are tired of minnows,” Henry replied.  “Suppose we try frogs.”

“No, I have sworn never to bait with another frog.  It’s too much like patting a human being on a hook.  The last frog I used reached up, took hold of the hook and tried to take it out.  No, I can’t fish with a frog.”

“But you would catch a bass, and you know that it must hurt him—­in fact, you know that it’s generally fatal.”

“Yes, but it’s his rapacity that gets him into trouble.  I don’t believe they’re going to bite.  Suppose we go over yonder and wallow under that tree.”

“All right.  I don’t care to catch a fish now anyway.  It would be a disturbance to pull him out.  Our trip has already paid us a large profit.  With one exception it has been more than a year since I have seen anything outside of that monstrous town.  As long as the spirit of the child remains with the man, he loves the country.  All children are fond of the woods—­the deep shade holds a mystery.”

They lay on the thick grass under an oak.  On one side of the tree was an old scar, made with an axe, and Henry, pointing to the scar, said:  “To cut down this tree was once the task assigned some lusty young fellow, but just as he had begun his work, a neighbor came along and told him that his strong arm was needed by his country; and he put down his axe and took up a gun.”