American prose literature; English prose literature; Narration (Rhetoric)
The Soothsayer had long been urging me to come and help him worship
the Wissahickon Drive, and when luck and the happy moment conspired,
I found myself carried swiftly past the Washington Monument at the
Park entrance and along the margin of the twinkling Schuylkill.
At the first there was nothing of the hermit in the Soothsayer’s
conversation. He was bitterly condemning the handicraft of a certain
garage mechanic who had done something to his “clutch.” He included
this fallacious artisan in the class of those he deems most degraded:
The People Who Don’t Give a Damn. For intellectual convenience, the
Soothsayer tersely ascribes all ills that befall him to Bolshevism.
If the waitress is tardy in delivering his cheese omelet, she is
a bolshevixen. If a motortruck driver skims his polished fender,
he is a bolshevik. In other words, those who Don’t Give a Damn are
bolsheviks.
The Soothsayer lamented that I had not been in the Park with him two
weeks ago, when the autumn foliage was a blaze of glowing color. But
to my eye the tints (it was the first of November) were unsurpassably
lovely. It was a keen afternoon, the air was sharp, the sky flushing
with rose and massed with great banks of cloud the bluish hue of
tobacco smoke. When we neared the corner of Peter’s Island the sun
slid from under a cloudy screen and transfused the thin bronze-yellow
of the trees with a pale glow which sparkled as the few remaining
leaves fluttered in the wind. Most of the leafage had fallen and was
being burnt in bonfires at the side of the road, where the gusts
tossed and flattened the waving flames. But the trees were still
sufficiently clothed to show a rich tapestry of russet and orange and
brown, sharpened here and there by wisps and shreds of yellow. And
where the boughs were wholly stripped (the silver-gray beeches, for
instance) their delicate twigs were clearly traced against the sky. I
think one hears too much of the beauty of October’s gold and scarlet
and not enough of the sober, wistful richness of November buffs and
duns and browns.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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