* * * * *

But Colin did not die. He is once more painting out in the sun, and next
year we plan to stand again on that very spot by the Susquehanna, and
watch the shadows of great fishes gliding through the dreamy water, and
the mud-turtle with her trail of little ones moving from rock to
rock--and then we shall strike out on the road again, just where we left
off that October afternoon; but the reader need not be afraid--we shall
not write a book about it.




_ENVOI_


_And now the merry way we took
Is nothing but a printed book;

We would you had been really there,
Out with us in the open air--

For, after all, the best of words
Are but a poor exchange for birds.

Yet if, perchance, this book of ours
Should sometimes make you think of flowers,

Orchards and barns and harvest wain,
"It was not written all in vain--"