Days like this I half expect to meet the Proprietor of Paradise Hill. He’s around here somewhere, they say. I’ve never met him. I’m always just missing him, either in these auriferous woods or at Dour Hour down at Pandora’s Tavern. But I keep looking. These leaves now lying brightly on the ground may be his footprints. Or perhaps yours. In any case, they mark a trail leading everywhere—and nowhere. Someplace we may meet.