CHAPTER XVII
In the wood, in the autumn sun, Autumn was keeping festival.
The foliage shone resplendent in yellow, bronze, purple, golden-red, and pink; the sulphur-coloured moss looked like antique velvet. With gusts of wind, the branches, madly arrogant, shook off their exuberance of sere and yellow leaves, as if they were strewing the paths with silver and gold and rustling notes.
Loudly laughing danced the dryads through the whirling leaves.
Out of the foaming stream between moss-covered rocks, rose the white, naked nymphs.
“Where is she? Where is she?” cried they inquisitively.
“There she comes! there she comes!” shouted the mad dryads, and in handfuls they cast the leaves into the air, which whirled over the nymphs and fell down on the water.
