There they wander, the unfettered spirits of bliss or doom.  Holding within their billowed masses the healing punishments of the rain, chaliced beakers of golden flame, lightnings instant and unbearable as the face of God—­dissolving into a crystal nothing, reborn from the viewless caverns of air—­here let us erect one enraptured altar to the bright mountains of the sky!

At sunset we were climbing back among the wooded hills of Pike County, fifteen hundred feet above the salt.  One great castle of clouds that had long drawn our eyes was crowning some invisible airy summit far above us.  As the sun dipped it grew gray, soft, and pallid.  And then one last banner of rosy light beaconed over its highest turret—­a final flare of glory to signal curfew to all the other silver hills.  Slowly it faded in the shadow of dusk.

We thought that was the end.  But no—­a little later, after we had reached the farm, we saw that the elfs of cloudland were still at play.  Every few minutes the castle glowed with a sudden gush of pale blue lightning.  And while we watched, with hearts almost painfully sated by beauty, through some leak the precious fire ran out; a great stalk of pure and unspeakable brightness fled passionately to earth.  This happened again and again until the artery of fire was discharged.  And then, slowly, slowly, the stars began to pipe up the evening breeze.  Our cloud drifted gently away.

Where and in what strange new form did it greet the flush of dawn?  Who knows?

UNHEALTHY

On Saturday afternoons Titania and I always have an adventure.  On Sundays we stay at home and dutifully read manuscripts (I am the obscure creature known as a “publisher’s reader”) but Saturday post meridiem is a golden tract of time wherein we wander as we list.

The 35th Street entrance to McQueery’s has long been hallowed as our stell-dich-ein.  We meet there at one o’clock.  That is to say, I arrive at 12:59 and spend fifteen minutes in most animated reflection.  There is plenty to think about.  One may stand between the outer and inner lines of glass doors and watch the queer little creatures that come tumbling out of the cloak and suit factory across the street.  Or one may stand inside the store, on a kind of terrace, beneath pineapple shaped arc lights, looking down upon the bustle of women on the main floor.  Best of all, one may stroll along the ornate gallery to one side where all sorts and conditions of ladies wait for other ladies who have promised to meet them at one o’clock.  They divide their time between examining the mahogany victrolae and deciding what kind of sundae they will have for lunch.  A very genteel old gentleman with white hair and a long morning coat and an air of perpetual irritation is in charge of this social gallery.  He wears the queer, soft, flat-soled boots that are suggestive of corns.  There is an information bureau there, where one may learn everything