106 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



breezes wandered here and there. I could clearly 

 see the beginning and the end of them, and one 

 that drifted ashore and passed me felt like the 

 lightest touch of a breath. One saw only the 

 ripple on the water; one thought of invisible 

 wings and trailing unseen robes. 



With the increasing warmth the water-mist 

 rose slowly, like a last quiet breath of night; 

 and as it ascended, the edges changing from 

 silvery gray to grayish white, it gathered close 

 its shredded margins, grew smaller as it rose 

 higher, and finally became a cloud. I watched 

 it and wondered about its fate. Before the day 

 was past, it might darken in its might, hurl forth 

 thunders and jagged light, and lose its very sub- 

 stance in down-poured liquid. Or, after drifting 

 idly high in air, the still-born cloud might garb 

 itself in rich purple and gold for the pageant of 

 the west, and again descend to brood over the 

 coming marvel of another sunrise. 



The tallest of bamboos lean over our low, lazy 

 spread of bungalow; and late this very night, in 

 the full moonlight, I leave my cot and walk down 

 to the beach over a shadow carpet of Japanese 

 filigree. The air over the white sand is as quiet 

 and feelingless to my skin as complete, comfort- 



