by Alice B. Emerson (Author)

The sun was a regular lie-abed on this Autumn morning, banked about by soft clouds and draperies of mist; but they glowed pink along the horizon-perhaps blushing for Old Sol's delinquency. The mist hung tenderly over the river, too-indeed, it masked the entire Valley of the Lumano-lying thick and dank upon the marshes and the low meadows, but wreathed more lightly about the farmhouses and their outbuildings, and the fodder and haystacks upon the higher ground.

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