It is Sunday evening. We are standing in the cemetery by the newly disturbed ground. Some friend has arranged the flowers on both graves, a thought that is like the pressure of a hand. The mournful churchbells that used in childhood to frighten me, have died away into silence, and a soft gentle rain began to fall.
The day, in opposition to the comparatively cool days we have been having has been a sultry lifeless one; sometimes the clouds parted and let the glaring sun beat down, no breeze stirred.
…A typical August night. Cool, uncomfortably so. Dark starry sky with the milky way unusually clear; deep silence with the exception of the constant rhythmic chorus of a myriad tree-crickets,
And so do my impressions of childhood evade me. Of late there have been rare instances when childhood impressions would flash across my mind—
– the Electric Bldg. looked especially beautiful – its architecture is timeless; it will be considered beautiful when modernistic architecture will look hopelessly dated –
Once I threw myself down in a little open space, flat on my back, and stretched out to the sun. Wave on wave of heat poured over me, and thru me. One could grow drunk on such a thing.
Marcus Aurelius has it: “The happiness of your life depends upon the quality of your thoughts, therefore guard accordingly.”
I thought of lightning striking the tree, but once the thought came to me, that if He elected to take me now I was ready to go, and only pressed closer, feeling perfectly safe.
Wind directly form the north. When the wind is in the north, it brings with it a something fairylike. It stirs the imagination more than any other wind.
These clouds are fine types of windy day clouds. One would expect wild torn mists hurrying haphazard across the sky...