and of other seasons. I rise . . . the scraping of 

 the chair startles the stillness of the early hour 

 . . . for one fleeting moment I am recalled to the 

 present. Going to the frost-streaked window I see 

 the transparent sky glitter like the far-off flood of 

 a noctilucent sea. And that star of the morning 

 which glows like another moon rises over the east- 

 ern hills, and its coruscating image I see reflected 

 from the frozen surface of the cove. Once again I 

 am soaring on the wings of fancy. There comes the 

 smell of damp and stranded seaweed, the musky 

 odor of the swamps, the sweet and balmy scent 

 that Alters through the cedared valleys of Long 

 Island. Autumn is here, also the bright blue sea 

 . . . and Aurelia. 



The time is late afternoon in October. At the 

 thwart of a little rowboat, I am engaged in going 

 over with a curious eye a various population 

 which all but completely covers the crumbling 

 framework of an old and partly submerged wreck. 

 Mussels and barnacles have for the most part pre- 

 empted the available surface of the rotting hulk, 

 but here and there, exposed by the falling tide, 

 are also to be seen the flaccid forms of seaweeds 

 and hydroids, anemones and starfishes, and other 



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