CHAPTER X 



THE GLORY OF THE WAY 



AFTER a prolonged hot spell in late August, 

 we usually get that transformation scene that 

 has cool reminders in it of the golden age. 

 A shower in the afternoon hisses and splashes 

 on the hot earth, and then dies out lingeringly 

 in what the farmers call a &quot; drizzle-drozzle.&quot; 

 It rains well on through the night softly. You 

 can almost hear the muskmelons and tomatoes 

 saying thanks. But the sun comes up unobscured 

 in the morning, burning in a fathomless blue that 

 you seldom see anywhere outside of the Orient, 

 and calling to mind that tongue-twisting line of 

 Baildon s, 



&quot; Palely blue lucent, one great undulent gem,&quot; 



only it is not &quot; palely,&quot; but pronouncedly violet 

 in the unflecked gulfs of it. This is the annun 

 ciation of fall. It is usually a very showy cere 

 monial, and a very old one, from which, long ago, 



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