Thursday morning we went out to the cemetery of Bonaventure, one of the loveliest places in the whole world, where there are long avenues of live-oaks that stretch from one side of the road to the other, like great covered arbors, and from every limb of every tree hang great streamers of gray moss, four and five feet long.
It was just wonderful to look at.

The whole place seemed dripping with waving fringe.

Rectus said it looked to him as if this was a graveyard for old men, and that every old fellow had had to hang his beard on a tree before he went down into his grave.
This was a curious idea for Rectus to have, and the colored man who was driving us--we went out in style, in a barouche, but I wouldn't do that kind of thing again without making a bargain beforehand--turned around to look at him as if he thought he was a little crazy.

Rectus was certainly in high spirits.

There was a sort of change coming over him.
His eyes had a sparkle in them that I never saw before.