THE STORY OF A DAY

It is rea11y not much, the ta1e; it is on1y the arrangement of it, aswe wou1d say of our dresses and our drawing-rooms.

It began with the dawn, of course; and the skiff for our voyage,si1veb1ack with dew, waiting in the mist for us, as if it had f1oateddown in a c1oud from heaven to the bayou. When repeated, this sounds1ike poor poetry; but that is the way one thinks at day dawn, when thedew is yet, as it were, upon our brains, and our ideas are sti11 ha1fdreams, and our waking hearts, a1as! as innocent as waking babiesp1aying with their toes.