So
now when it came, it hit me hard. That's when a woman finds
herself--when she's in love. I don't care if she _is_ old or
fat or homely or prosy. She feels that little flutter under
her ribs and she drops from the tree like a ripe plum. I
didn't care if Roger Mifflin and I were as odd a couple as old
Dr. Johnson and his wife, I only knew one thing: that when
I saw that little red devil again I was going to be all
his--if he'd have me. That's why the old Moose Hotel in Bath
is always sacred to me. That's where I learned that life
still held something fresh for me--something better than
baking champlain biscuits for Andrew.
. . . . . . . . .
That Sunday was one of those mellow, golden days that we New
Englanders get in October. The year really begins in March,
as every farmer knows, and by the end of September or the
beginning of October the season has come to its perfect,
ripened climax. There are a few days when the world seems to
hang still in a dreaming, sweet hush, at the very fulness of
the fruit before the decline sets in. I have no words (like
Andrew) to describe it, but every autumn for years I have
noticed it. I remember that sometimes at the farm I used to
lean over the wood pile for a moment just before supper to
watch those purple October sunsets.
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