burning with a lustre of their own. Against a dim sky all flowers look
like fireworks. There is something strange about them at once vivid and
secret, like flowers traced in fire in the grim garden of a witch. A
bright blue sky is necessarily the high-light in the picture, and its
brightness kills all the bright blue flowers. But on a grey day the
larkspur looks like fallen heaven; the red daisies are really the lost
red eyes of day, and the sunflower is the vice-regent of the sun.
Lastly, there is this value about the colour that men call colourless:
that it suggests in some way the mixed and troubled average of
existence, especially in its quality of strife and expectation and
promise. Grey is a colour that always seems on the eve of changing to
some other colour; of brightening into blue, or blanching into white, or
breaking into green or gold. So we may be perpetually reminded of the
indefinite hope that is in doubt itself; and when there is grey weather
on our hills or grey hair on our heads perhaps they may still remind us
of the morning.--"Daily News."


[Sidenote: _G.K. Chesteron_]

Silence is the unbearable repartee.--"Charles Dickens."


[Sidenote: _G.K. Chesterton_]

For those who study the great art of lying in bed there is one emphatic
caution to be added. Even for those who cannot do their work in bed (as,
for example, the professional harpooners of whales), it is obvious that
the indulgence must be very occasional. But that is not the caution I
mean. The caution is this: if you do lie in bed, be sure you do it