INDIAN SUMMER 



he said. I called his attention to the tinkle of 

 the blacksmith s anvil in the far-away village. 

 It came on the pulses of the south wind, an 

 infinitesimal point of sound, rhythmic and elfin- 

 like. &quot;The world is hard at it, my boy,&quot; I re 

 plied, &quot; but it is Sunday with outdoors. I guess 

 the sky is at its prayers.&quot; That seemed to him 

 to have an element of exaggeration rather than 

 of poetry in it, for he took on an incredulous 

 smile and said, &quot; Oh, I don t believe the sky has 

 to pray like we do.&quot; And standing corrected, 

 what could I do but say : &quot; Right you are, Com 

 rade, it doesn t have to That s just it.&quot; 



I wondered to myself how it would do to have 

 Charlie annotate Heine for private use. What 

 jolly footnotes, with dispelling laughs in them, 

 and jocund but shattering shouts of young faith. 

 Such an edition of Heine, you will say, would 

 remind you of the old tombs that were garnished 

 with meaningless cherubs. But why not say, 

 rather, the old tombs that had Rosicrucian tapers 

 set round them, that did not go out ? 



The hours on such mornings are noiseless. 

 The unctuous sunshine seems to lubricate time 

 itself, and the diurnal machinery makes no sound. 

 The ongoing nymphs are softly sandalled. Now 

 and then one trips in the dead leaves, and you 

 hear a sly stir, as if she had swept her drapery 

 up, but you see nothing, and if you listen for a 

 footfall only the low breathing of the drowsy 

 earth and a cricket here and there ticking the 

 transitions. 



261 



