Here he dismounted and sat against an aspen-tree.

His horses ruthlessly cropped the purple blossoms.
Nature in her strong prodigality had outdone herself here.

Pale white the aspen-trees shone, and above was the fluttering, quivering canopy of gold tinged with green, and below clustered the asters, thick as stars in the sky, waving, nodding, swaying gracefully to each little autumn breeze, lilac-hued and lavender and pale violet, and all the shades of exquisite purple.
Wade lingered, his senses predominating.

This was one of those moments that colored his lonely wanderings.

Only to see was enough.