{"id":"01KG8AKRV7501DDWJPCN53W1E0","cid":"bafkreihxbapnoki3ja6alsbtf2mlpynmsltld76xqvaccqxwnihadmdf34","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":223,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.023Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","start_line":160,"text":"And this recalls my inland voyage to fairy-land. A true voyage; but,\r\ntake it all in all, interesting as if invented.\r\n\r\nFrom the piazza, some uncertain object I had caught, mysteriously\r\nsnugged away, to all appearance, in a sort of purpled breast-pocket,\r\nhigh up in a hopper-like hollow, or sunken angle, among the\r\nnorthwestern mountains—yet, whether, really, it was on a mountain-side,\r\nor a mountain-top, could not be determined; because, though, viewed\r\nfrom favorable points, a blue summit, peering up away behind the rest,\r\nwill, as it were, talk to you over their heads, and plainly tell you,\r\nthat, though he (the blue summit) seems among them, he is not of them\r\n(God forbid!), and, indeed, would have you know that he considers\r\nhimself—as, to say truth, he has good right—by several cubits their\r\nsuperior, nevertheless, certain ranges, here and there double-filed, as\r\nin platoons, so shoulder and follow up upon one another, with their\r\nirregular shapes and heights, that, from the piazza, a nigher and lower\r\nmountain will, in most states of the atmosphere, effacingly shade\r\nitself away into a higher and further one; that an object, bleak on the\r\nformer’s crest, will, for all that, appear nested in the latter’s\r\nflank. These mountains, somehow, they play at hide-and-seek, and all\r\nbefore one’s eyes.\r\n\r\nBut, be that as it may, the spot in question was, at all events, so\r\nsituated as to be only visible, and then but vaguely, under certain\r\nwitching conditions of light and shadow.\r\n\r\nIndeed, for a year or more, I knew not there was such a spot, and\r\nmight, perhaps, have never known, had it not been for a wizard\r\nafternoon in autumn—late in autumn—a mad poet’s afternoon; when the\r\nturned maple woods in the broad basin below me, having lost their first\r\nvermilion tint, dully smoked, like smouldering towns, when flames\r\nexpire upon their prey; and rumor had it, that this smokiness in the\r\ngeneral air was not all Indian summer—which was not used to be so sick\r\na thing, however mild—but, in great part, was blown from far-off\r\nforests, for weeks on fire, in Vermont; so that no wonder the sky was\r\nominous as Hecate’s cauldron—and two sportsmen, crossing a red stubble\r\nbuck-wheat field, seemed guilty Macbeth and foreboding Banquo; and the\r\nhermit-sun, hutted in an Adullum cave, well towards the south,\r\naccording to his season, did little else but, by indirect reflection of\r\nnarrow rays shot down a Simplon pass among the clouds, just steadily\r\npaint one small, round, strawberry mole upon the wan cheek of\r\nnorthwestern hills. Signal as a candle. One spot of radiance, where all\r\nelse was shade.\r\n\r\nFairies there, thought I; some haunted ring where fairies dance.\r\n\r\nTime passed; and the following May, after a gentle shower upon the\r\nmountains—a little shower islanded in misty seas of sunshine; such a\r\ndistant shower—and sometimes two, and three, and four of them, all\r\nvisible together in different parts—as I love to watch from the piazza,\r\ninstead of thunder storms, as I used to, which wrap old Greylock, like\r\na Sinai, till one thinks swart Moses must be climbing among scathed\r\nhemlocks there; after, I say, that, gentle shower, I saw a rainbow,\r\nresting its further end just where, in autumn, I had marked the mole.\r\nFairies there, thought I; remembering that rainbows bring out the\r\nblooms, and that, if one can but get to the rainbow’s end, his fortune\r\nis made in a bag of gold. Yon rainbow’s end, would I were there,\r\nthought I. And none the less I wished it, for now first noticing what\r\nseemed some sort of glen, or grotto, in the mountain side; at least,\r\nwhatever it was, viewed through the rainbow’s medium, it glowed like\r\nthe Potosi mine. But a work-a-day neighbor said, no doubt it was but\r\nsome old barn—an abandoned one, its broadside beaten in, the acclivity\r\nits background. But I, though I had never been there, I knew better.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AK2XENYVHD18SFXYQ1NRW","peer_type":"section","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKRV71CRM2JPNA15FQSQC","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.207Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:22.341Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}