弗朗西斯·拉塞尔

FrancisRussell

OnthiswaningautumnafternoonthenorthernMainelandscae1istart，comelling，shadowedhereandtherebyuffsoffair-weathercumulus，remnantsofsummer。Here，adozenmileswestofWaldoboro，Ioncesentmysummersfromtheageof12to14atoneofthoseIndian-namedboyscams—moreyearsagothanIliketothinkabout。

Istandontherisenearwhatwasoncethebaseballdiamond。Tomyrightistheblackoak，severalhundredyearsold，besidewhichweusedtoholdourSaturdaynightcamfires。Howmanytimesonheat-heavyAugustdayshaveIstoodonthisriselookingoutoverthewoodedlandscaetowardtheCamdenhills?Formeitwasalwaysamagicalrosect，theaustere2countrysidestretchingawaywiththeshardefinitionofan18th-centuryaquatintacrosshillandwoodlandtoMt。Battieoutlinedagainstthehorizon。Atourcamfireevenings，whenwegatheredaroundthegreatoakjustaftersunset，MountBattiewithoutlosingitsdefinitionwouldtakeonablueluminosity。

Overtheyearsaraggedsecond-growthofasenandbirchandseckledalder，atthefaredgeofthebaseballdiamond，hasblottedoutthatview。Nowthereisnothingtoseebeneaththecrystallineskybuttheuneventosofsecond-growthtrees。Alreadytheskyhasbeguntotakenonthesteeliertintsofwinter。EvenMt。Battiehasdisaeared。

Onsultryafternoons，whentheairquivered3inthecoolandfadinglightofearlyevening，Iusedtostandherebytheoldoakandlookoutacrossaninterludenofscrubandswamfromwhichseveralmilesaway，ahillemerged。Asahillitwasinsignificantenough。Belowitsbaresummitanabandonedasturelaydottedwithgroundjunierandoutcroingsofgranite。Yetsomethingaboutthathilldrewme，beckonedtome，acrossthemiles。Icouldnotbeartotakemyeyesfromit，IknewonlythatbeforesummerendedImustgotoit，（makemywayovertheasture，uanduastshrubandgraniteuntilIstoodontheverysummit。）It；wassomethingIhadtodo。Icouldnotexlainwhy。Ididnotevenaskmyself。

Notthatitwaseasytogetawayfromcam。Morningandafternoon，ouractiviticswererecordedinacounselorsnotebook。Wehadtobeswimmingorrowingorlayingtennisorbaseballorracticingatrackeventorgoingoffonnaturewalksormakingsomegadgetinthecarentrysho—justsolongaswedidsomething。Buttodonothing，toclimbahillfornoreason，thatwasoutsidetherules，againstthe

"camsirit。

"

Saturdayafternoons，withtheirinfluxofarentsandvisitors，broughtacertainrelaxation，lessaccountability。OnonesuchblueandvividafternoonIsliedawaytogettomyhill。Fromthegreatoak，Icouldseeitssummitaheadofme，unknown，inviting。Inconsicuously，Iedgedalongthebaseballfield，thensliedintotheunderbrush。

Itwashardgoing，hardtokeeasenseofdirectioninsuchatangleofvineandthicket。Istumbledoverrottenlogs，steedintoanthills。Marshhillocksgavewayundermyfeet，deadbranchessnaggedme，ricklyseedsworkedintomywetsneakers。Theairwasstagnant。Withmosquitoes4droningandhover-fliescirclinganddarting，Iloddedon，losingmyselfandlosingtrackoftime。

Imusthavebeenstrugglingonforatleastanhour。SuddenlyIcametoaclearing，anoengroveofashandmale，andasthesunlightfilteredthroughtheleaves。Isawinfrontofmeaelusterofornatediminutivchouses。Brightlyaintedinavarietyofcolors，trimmedwithscrollworkandcussandscalloedshingles，withnarrow，high-itchedroofs，eachwasnomorethananarmslengthfromthenext，andallwereemty。Therewasnosignofanylivingbeing。

Tome，emergingfromthewood，thesunlitgrovewaslikesomethingoutofGrimm，asifthisoddlittlevillagehadbeenutunderasellandhadbeenasleefor100years。Ayellowhouseinfrontofmewithablue-latticedfrontorchcouldhavebeenwaitingforHanselandGretel。Soquietthegrovewas，sostilltheair，thateventheasenleaveshunglim。Blueandgreendragonflies，oisedintheair，addedtotheenchantment。Faroff，Icouldhearthewich-wich-wichofayellowwarblerandalocustssomnolentbuzz。Otherwisesilence。

Iwentuontheorchofainktrimmedhouseandeeredthroughthesingle；window。WhatIsawwasrosaicsenough—aroomwithacouleofchairs，atable，acouch，akerosenelam。Aladderledustairstoasleeingloft。Thegrovewasamystery。Whywerethoselittlehousesthere?Whyweretheyemtyandyetatthesametimecaredfor?Whoownedthem?Itwaseerietoseetheseminiatureshuddledtogetheragainstallthatsace。IhalfexectedsomeguardiantocomerushingoutandaskmewhatIwasdoingthere。

Isuosemyenchantedvillagewassomesortofcammeetingground，usedafewweekseachsummer。Ineverdidfindout。OnthatafternoonIdidnotlinger。Thesunsrayswerealreadyslanting，theshadowslonger，andmyhillstilllayaheadofme。AgainIlungedintotheunderbrush。（breakingthroughatlasttoaruttedroadscoredwithuddles。）ButatthefirstturningIreachedthefootofthehill，myhill，oenandlacedinthelengthenedsunshine。Itsthinmeadowgrasshadturnedbrown，astonewallthatonceenclosedtheasturehadfallenaart，andvelvetymulleinleaveswerethrustingubetweentheboulders。UIwent，overagraniteledgeandacrossthemeadow，tramlingdownhardhackandmeadowsweetinmyhurrytogettotheto。