CHAPTER V. 

 DEAD WILLOW BEND. 



IN an August day there is nothing particularly au- 

 gust, even if it ends in a gust. This may prove more 

 inconvenient than grand, as when my house was struck 

 by lightning. One good thing, however, may be said of 

 the month ; its sultriness does not reach the shady re- 

 cesses along the creek ; and as all the indications were 

 those of a tropical day upon the uplands, I made haste, 

 as usual, on this my fifth outing, to be again afloat. 



Not a creature crossed my path as I hurried along, fol- 

 lowing wherever the grass had been well cropped by the 

 cows ; for every twig and leaf was dripping with dew. 



My neighbors speak of dew as something very differ- 

 ent from water, saying that it will saturate one's cloth- 

 ing far more quickly. I am half disposed to believe 

 it. I have never found a leather shoe that was proof 

 against it. 



How little is required to raise the commonplace to the 

 dignity of grandeur! Every object, however homely, 

 was at sunrise to-day made as beautiful as it was promi- 

 nent by the magic of this daintily-defining dew. Every 

 blade of grass bore aloft its brilliant crystal ; every leaf 

 sparkled with its clustered gems; every airy highway 

 of Arachne was a wondrous structure, bnilt of stolen 

 moonbeams. 



