broad straight road. But monotonous tho it was, there was compensation in going west into the bright May sunlight, and in seeing the trees clothed in their virgin raw yellow green foliage.
     We dropped Nasca (when we derisively called by his middle name, Archangel) at Silver Springs, and planned to take Route 5 home. On the way we stopped off to see “Sunset Bay,” a beautiful spot undeserving of such a trite sentimental name. The place was deserted at first; here we found countless beautiful pebbles of all sorts; we could not resist taking as many as we could carry. What elemental beauty there is in these little stones worn smooth by years of being rolled by the lake’s surf. I am a little child again as I look at them. Tagore in his Gitanjali, No 60, expresses the idea better:
     “On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous __________. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.”
We sat here for a little while, while Arthur busied himself throwing pieces of wood into the lake, and stones after them. The lake was quiet, and seemed to have an oily skin over it; in places it merged completely into the sky. The sun, breaking thru at last, was reflected on the far rim by a thin molten silver streak.
     Evening was quite different. The starter on the car went