Clarence King 



veils of cloud had tempered the moon 

 light and overspread the vacant plains 

 with spectral shadows, was at length 

 yielding to the more cheerful advance 

 of dawn. 



From the oaken bench on which I 

 had slept, in the arched entrance of 

 the posada, I could look back across 

 the wan swells of plain over which 

 my companion and I had plodded the 

 day before, and watch the landscape 

 brighten cheerfully as the sun rose. 



Just in front, overhanging the edge 

 of a dry, shallow ravine, stood the 

 ruin of a lone windmill — a breach in 

 its walls rendering visible the gnarled 

 trunk of an old olive-tree, which 

 hugged the shade of the ancient mill, 

 as if safe under the protection of a 

 veritable giant. 



Oaken frames of the mill-arms, 

 slowly consuming with dry-rot, etched 

 their broken lines against the soft 

 gray horizon. A rag or two of 



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