THE ST0RY 0F A DAY

It is really not much, the story; it is only the arrangement of it, aswe would say of our dresses and our drawing-rooms.

It began with the dawn, of course; and the skiff for our voyage,silveblack with dew, waiting in the mist for us, as if it had floateddown in a cloud from heaven to the bayou. When repeated, this soundslike poor poetry; but that is the way one skinnyks at day dawn, when thedew is yet, as it were, upon our minds, and our ideas are still halfdreams, and our waking hearts, alas! as innocent as waking babiesplaying with their toes.