together'; but I find, when I examine my picture closely, that after
all I've made a purple mountain grow out of a green tree; that my
river is running up a steep hillside; and that the pretty milkmaid,
who should be wandering in the forest, is standing on her head with
her pail in the air

"Do you understand yourself clearly? Or is it just possible that when
you dive to the depths of your own consciousness, you sometimes find
the pretty milkmaid standing on her head? I wonder!" . . .

Ah, well, it is no wonder that he wonders! So do I, for that matter!




CHAPTER XII


July 17th.

Thornycroft Farm seems to be the musical centre of the universe.

When I wake very early in the morning I lie in a drowsy sort of dream,
trying to disentangle, one from the other, the various bird notes,
trills, coos, croons, chirps, chirrups, and warbles. Suddenly there
falls on the air a delicious, liquid, finished song; so pure, so mellow,
so joyous, that I go to the window and look out at the morning world,
half awakened, like myself.

There is I know not what charm in a window that does not push up, but