XIX.

A sunset cloud.

Not long ago there slowly ascended into the evening sky a pillar of cloud so vast that all measurements sank into insignificance beside it.  Its color was of softest gray just touched with the flush that deepens the inmost chamber of a shell, or blushes in the unfolded petals of a wind flower.  With majestic yet almost imperceptible motion this cloud mounted the blue background of the sky.  The spectre of a faded moon hung motionless above it an instant only, and then was swiftly drawn within its soft eclipse.  Changing from moment to moment, the great mass took on all semblances of vivid fancy, until the evening sky seemed the arena of dreamland’s cohorts.  With indescribable grace and with the delicate lightness of a fairy footfall the mighty visitant advanced and took possession of the heavenly field.  Suddenly the full glory of the setting sun smote it from outer rim to base.  In less time than it takes to tell the story the cloud was dissipated in a spray of feathery light.  It drifted like a wreath before the wind and lost itself in the illimitable spaces of the air, as dust in the splendor of a summer day.  It broke upon the hills in a shower of flame and dissolved above the still waters of the lake in tremulous flakes of light.  The sight was worth going far to see, and yet I am willing to wager my to-morrow’s dinner that not one-fiftieth of the folks for whom I write, saw it, or would have left their supper to watch the glorious spectacle.

XX.

One secret of success.

There is just one thing nowadays that never fails to bring success, and that is assurance.  If you are going to make yourself known, it is no longer the thing to quietly hand out your card and a modest credential; you must advance with a trumpet and blow a brazen blast to shake the stars.  The time has gone by when self-advancement can be gained by modest and unassuming methods.  To stand with lifted hat and solicit a hearing savors of an all too humble spirit.  The easily abashed may starve in a garret, or go die on the highways.  There is no chance for them in the jostle of life.  The gilded circus chariot, with a full brass band and a plump goddess distributing posters, is what takes the popular heart by storm.  Your silent entry into town, depending upon the merits of your wares to work up a trade, is chimerical and obsolete.  We no longer sit in the shadow and play flutes; we parade in a sawdust ring and play on trombones, or take our place on a raised platform and beat the bass drum, and in that way we draw a crowd and gather in the coppers, and that is what we live for, isn’t it?

XXI.

A new beatitude.