MILORD THE WEATHER 



recall now is that my sentences grew shorter and 

 shorter toward the end of the eighteen months, 

 which was encouraging, and that I learned to write 

 without looldng at the paper, because the color 

 changed so quickly that if I took my eye away I 

 was sure to miss something. It is this tangled mix- 

 ture of weather and conscious passing of time that 

 causes the trouble. My cedar tree is hastening to- 

 ward its end through the same duration of time as 

 a storm but compared with my life it might be an 

 everlasting crystal. Reporting a dead calm or sheet 

 lightning or a sunset is like covering a three-ring 

 circus. 



Another subtle thing about weather is its infi- 

 nitely delicate gradations — the almost impercep- 

 tible merging of one phase into another. A squall 

 can of course rise most abruptly, and the passing of 

 the shadows of clouds is exceedingly rapid, but the 

 transition of day to night in temperate latitudes 

 often defies any spoken or written account — there 

 is nothing definite with which to begin or end a 

 phrase. Our most vivid impressions are those which 

 come to us at the first impact of weather upon our 

 newly awakened senses, or when we go out after 

 many hours of concentrated indoor work. 



Two days ago on the third of September when I 

 woke as usual at half past five o'clock and went out 

 to face my Nonsuch ocean, I found it a very early 

 morning — early geologically. The earth seemed 

 immature; winds and the strife of evolution had 

 not yet been invented. To be sure there were tall 



157 



