It was like going home to hear him say quietly,
"So you are here--really here," as he took my hand. The feeling of
comradeship that I had experienced in reading his books was realized
in his presence. With market-basket on arm, he started off at a
brisk pace along the country road, first looking to see if I was
well shod, as he warned me that it was quite a climb to Slabsides.
His kindly face was framed with snowy hair. He was dressed in
olive-brown clothes, and "his old experienced coat" blended in color
with the tree-trunks and the soil with which one felt sure it had
often been in close communion.
We soon left the country road and struck into a woodland path, going
up through quiet, cathedral-like woods till we came to an abrupt
rocky stairway which my companion climbed with ease and agility
despite his five-and-sixty years.
I paused to examine some mushrooms, and, finding a species that I
knew to be edible, began nibbling it. "Don't taste that," he said
imperatively; but I laughed and nibbled away. With a mingling of
anxiety and curiosity he inquired: "Are you sure it's all right?
Do you really like them? I never could; they are so uncanny--the
gnomes or evil genii or hobgoblins of the vegetable world--give
them a wide berth."
He pointed to a rock in the distance where he said he sometimes sat
and sulked.
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