They were the mummied heathbells of the past summer, originally tender and purple, now washed colourless by Michaelmas rains, and dried to dead skins by October suns.
I always felt dirty after being near yahoos—they always tried to grab me—so that day I'd stripped off and jumped in the ice water—to cool down and wash their smell off my skin.
The lake seemed to wash away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them saying, " Little children, love one another" .