弗朗西斯·拉塞尔/FrancisRussell
OnthiswaningautumnafternoonthenorthernMainelandscapeistart, compelling, shadowedhereandtherebypuffsoffair-weathercumulus, , adozenmileswestofWaldoboro, Ioncespentmysummersfromtheageof12to14atoneofthoseIndian-namedboys'camps-moreyearsagothanIliketothinkabout.
, severalhundredyearsold, -heavyAugustdayshaveIstoodonthisriselookingoutoverthewoodedlandscapetowardtheCamdenhills?Formeitwasalwaysamagicalprospect, , whenwegatheredaroundthegreatoakjustaftersunset, MountBattiewithoutlosingitsdefinitionwouldtakeonablueluminosity.
Overtheyearsaraggedsecond-growthofaspenandbirchandspeckledalder, atthefaredgeofthebaseballdiamond, .
Onsultryafternoons, whentheairquiveredinthecoolandfadinglightofearlyevening, Iusedtostandherebytheoldoakandlookoutacrossaninterludeofscrubandswampfromwhichseveralmilesaway, , beckonedtome, , IknewonlythatbeforesummerendedImustgotoit, makemywayoverthepasture, .
, ouractivitieswererecordedinacounselor', toclimbahillfornoreason, thatwasoutsidetherules, againstthe“campspirit”。
Saturdayafternoons, withtheirinfluxofparentsandvisitors, broughtacertainrelaxation, , Icouldseeitssummitaheadofme, unknown, , Iedgedalongthebaseballfield, thenslippedintotheunderbrush.
Itwashardgoing, , , deadbranchessnaggedme, -fliescirclinganddarting, Iploddedon, losingmyselfandlosingtrackoftime.
, anopengroveofashandmaple, , trimmedwithscrollworkandcuspsandscallopedshingles, withnarrow, high-pitchedroofs, eachwasnomorethananarm'slengthfromthenext, .
