.

NIGHT: IT IS BAD LUCK TO SING BEFORE BREAKFAST.
There was a lace of faint mists along the creek and beyond, when John and Helen reached their bench (of course they went back there), and broken roundelays were croaking from a bayou up the stream, where rakish frogs held carnival in resentment of the lonesomeness.

The air was still and close.

Hundreds of fire-flies coquetted with the darkness amongst the trees across the water, glinting from unexpected spots, shading their little lanterns for a second to glow again from other shadows.

The sky was a wonderful olive green; a lazy cloud drifted in it and lapped itself athwart the moon.
"The dead painters design the skies for us each day and night, I think," Helen said, as she dropped a little scarf from her shoulders and leaned back on the bench.