suburb. Then, too, I should like it to reëcho the sound of
Chrysanthème's guitar, in which I begin to find a certain charm, for
want of something better, in the silence of the lovely summer
evenings.

All through these moonlit nights of July, the weather has been calm,
luminous and magnificent. Ah! what glorious clear nights, what
exquisite roseate tints beneath that wonderful moon, what mystery of
blue shadows in the thick tangle of trees. And, from the heights
where stood our verandah, how prettily the town lay sleeping at our
feet!

After all, I do not positively detest this little Chrysanthème, and
when there is no repugnance on either side, habit turns into a
make-shift of attachment.




XVII.


Always, over, in, and through everything, rises day and night from
this Japanese landscape the song of the cicalas, ceaseless, strident,
and prodigious. It is everywhere, and never-ending, at no matter what
hour of the burning day, what hour of the cool and refreshing night.
In the midst of the roads, as we approached our anchorage, we had
heard it at the same time from the two shores, from both walls of
green mountains. It is wearisome and haunting; it seems to be the
manifestation, the noise expressive of the special kind of life