Low Tides 



end of time. We were bound upon 

 that voyage for the Scottish Border- 

 land, for a certain stately manor-house 

 where giant beech-trees rear their ven- 

 erable boughs, not far from where 

 "Sweet Teviot" pours out its silver 

 tide into the Tweed. But that is 

 another story. 



The fire-place is for the time being 

 impossible; the Seven Seas are for the 

 present, as far as ordinary travel is 

 concerned, verboten, and the winged 

 violinists of the grass and hedge and 

 trees are only just beginning to arrive. 

 But there is left the mountains, and 

 it has been years since we have been 

 among them. Let us now therefore 

 seek their solitudes. And while you 

 are getting ready, may we gossip for 

 a time of mutual friends? 



