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- 
