If I go out in the wood on the mountain When the tops shine in the earliest sunlight, Ah! there still lingers the dry heat of yestern On the singed mosses and withering shrubs, And all around me come m/idges by thousands, Stinging and bold, As if the hot sun were sprinkling in sparkles.

Over the next half-decade or so, the autobiography's "fadograph of a yestern scene" loses its glow of childhood happiness.