left of nature’s brilliant tints, not even so much shadow as an artist might use to accentuate a bird’s wing in crayon—­no heaven above, no earth beneath.  The interior of a raised biscuit could not have been more densely uniform than the atmosphere.  It seemed as if the world had slipped its moorings and drifted off its course into companionless space, leaving me behind, as an ocean steamer sometimes leaves a straggler on an uninhabited shore.  I felt like sending forth a call that should give my bearings and bring back a boat to the rescue.  I groped my way down the steps, and, following an intuition, sought the station.  Ahead of me I heard muffled steps, yet saw no form.  But suddenly a doorway opened in the east and out strode the sun.  In the air above and about me, behold, the wonder of diamond domes and slender minarets traced in pearl!  The wayside banks were fringed with crystal spray of downbeaten weed and bush that sparkled like the billows of a sunlit sea.  The tall elms here and there towered like the masts of returning ships, slow sailing from a wintry voyage back to summer lands and splendor.  There was no sound in all the air, but the whole universe seemed singing as when the morning stars chorused the glory of God.  More and more widely opened that doorway in the east; step by step advanced the great magician, and over all the world the splendor grew, until it seemed too much for mortal eyes to bear, when lo! a touch dispelled it all and commonplace day stood revealed.

VI.

The circling year—­A clock.

The circling year is a clock whereon nature writes the hours in blossoms.  First come the wind flowers and the violets, they denote the early morning hours and are quickly passed.  The forenoon is marked by lilacs, apple blooms and roses.  The day’s meridian is reached with lilies, red carnations, and the dusky splendor of pansies and passion flowers.  Then come the languid poppy and the prim little 4 o’clock, the marigold, the sweet pea, and later the dahlia and the many-tinted chrysanthemum to mark the day’s decline.  Lastly the goldenrod, the aster and the gentian, tell us it is evening time, and night and frost are close at hand.  The rose hour has struck already for ’93.  The garden beds are full of scattered petals and the dusty roadways glimmer with ghostly blossoms too wan to be roses, and wafted by a breath into nothingness.  With such a calendar to mark the advance of decay and death the seasons differ from the mortal race which substitutes aches and pains for a horologe of flowers, and grows old by processes of physical failure and mental blight.

VII.

Something better than surface manners.