THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMING _ 87 
flower it was shed perfume in the valley of Avil- 
lion till now. We shall find out all we want to 
know in due time. In this silence of odor and 
color no wind blew loudly. Nay, no wind blew 
at all. A forest of crab trees is what I had come 
upon. JI shouted (and am I not a Methodist 
and who should stay me?). Shouted, imperially 
as an emperor. I had health and a day and a 
forest of wild crab in flower. I could not see 
out, nor through, nor up. They are my zenith 
and horizon. No leaves are visible, but flowers, 
flowers, flowers, flowers. The wealth of that 
lovely blossoming I have never seen approx- 
imated. You could not see the branches on 
which the blossoms hung. You saw no trunk, 
no branch, only solely a tree of pink perfume. 
I sprawled under the scent and color. I lay 
flat on my back, put my hands, fingers inter- 
knit, beneath my head for a pillow and let the 
day go as it would. I furloughed the world. 
I prayed and sung my psalm. I sang no peni- 
tential psalm that day, but the songs of Asaph 
and threw “‘selahs” in like an applause. The 
sky was blue I doubted not. It had been when 
of late I wandered into that world where the sky 
was pink perfume from day dawn to dark and 
a body wanted nothing other. I found myself 
speaking to myself of “the late world,” as if it 
were defunct. How far away it was! God is 
here, and his garments are perfumed and like 
the light. 
