S fellows, and a very ascetic of penitence w

Thibeau Ciallella befitted at aimpro.nl
Mon Dec 28 01:26:30 UTC 2009


Th no such vanishings as these. The dimmer constellations of the soft
night are reserved by the skies. Hardly is a secondary star seen by the
large and vague eyes of the stream. They are blind to the Pleiades.
There is a little kind of star that drowns itself by hundreds in the
river Thames--the many-rayed silver-white seed that makes journeys on
all the winds up and down England and across it in the end of summer. It
is a most expert traveller, turning a little wheel a-tiptoe wherever the
wind lets it rest, and speeding on those pretty points when it is not
flying. The streets of London are among its many highways, for it is
fragile enough to go far in all sorts of weather. But it gets disabled
if a rough gust tumbles it on the water so that its finely-feathered
feet are wet. On gentle breezes it is able to cross dry-shod, walking
the waters. All unlike is this pilgrim star to the tethered
constellations. It is far adrift. It goes singly to all the winds. It
offers thistle plants (or whatever is the flower that makes such
delicate ashes) to the tops of many thousand hills. Doubtless the farmer
would rather have to meet it in battalions than in these invincible
units astray. But if the farmer owes it a lawful grudge, there is many a
rigid riv
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