As a matter of fact, it is just a broad, graded, and somewhat improved highway, too rough for fast speed and comfort, and on the Saturday morning in question dust was inches deep.
The day was fine, the country beautiful; hills everywhere, hills so high they were almost mountains.

The dust of summer was on the foliage, a few late blossoms lingered by the roadside, but for the most part flowers had turned to seeds, and seeds were ready to fall.

The fields were in stubble, hay in the mow and straw in the stack.

The green of the hills was deeper in hue, the valleys were ripe for autumn.
People were flocking to the Berkshires from seashore and mountains; the "season" was about to begin in earnest; hotels were filled or rapidly filling, and Lenox--dear, peaceful little village in one of nature's fairest hollows--was most enticing as we passed slowly through, stopping once or twice to make sure of our very uncertain way.
The slowest automobile is too fast for so delightful a spot as Lenox.

One should amble through on a palfrey, or walk, or, better still, pass not through at all, but tarry and dream the days away until the last leaves are off the trees.