“That country where it is always turning late in the
year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist;
where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay.
That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins,
closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country
whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose
people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.”