EN ROUTE THROUGH PARADISE 43 
tyranny of cash. The complaisant nickel hobbles 
a man as if he were a horse. 
Recent rains have poured the ditches of the 
roadside full. If it were only night a thousand 
frog serenades would fill the air. I wish it were 
night. ’*Tis worth being auditor when a frog 
holds the guitar and tunes it to the muscles of 
his throat. 
The clouds are indolent and far aloft. The 
wind is a ground wind and tosses the wheat 
fields and the lush green and the every wild 
flower into a perfect highland fling; but the sky 
winds are asleep and the clouds are at rest. 
They are mainly formless—unshapen like a haze. 
They are moody clouds through which the sun 
shines in a smileless way. The sky is restful; 
so is the sunlight. No glare is on the outlook. 
You could scarcely accumulate a freckle if you 
went fishing. A sleepy sky but never a bit of 
a sleepy day. The day is wide awake. The 
flowers and woods and the grass are all mad 
with joy. 
The wind is wide awake; the June wonder is 
wide awake; clouds are fast asleep. En route 
through paradise! “O paradise, O paradise, 
who doth not long for thee?” 
