On the present occasion I too (after suffering sundry stings
from infuriated bees) was thus engaged as I sat on the rocks
beneath the chestnuts. Dipping morsels of bread into a potful of
honey, I was munching them for breakfast, and enjoying, at the
same time, the indolent beams of the moribund autumn sun.

In the fall of the year the Caucasus resembles a gorgeous
cathedral built by great craftsmen (always great craftsmen are
great sinners) to conceal their past from the prying eyes of
conscience. Which cathedral is a sort of intangible edifice of
gold and turquoise and emerald, and has thrown over its hills
rare carpets silk-embroidered by Turcoman weavers of Shemi and
Samarkand, and contains, heaped everywhere, plunder brought from
all the quarters of the world for the delectation of the sun.
Yes, it is as though men sought to say to the Sun God: " All
things here are thine. They have been brought hither for thee by
thy people."

Yes, mentally I see long-bearded, grey-headed supermen, beings
possessed of the rounded eyes of happy children, descending from
the hills, and decking the earth, and sowing it with sheerly
kaleidoscopic treasures, and coating the tops of the mountains
with massive layers of silver, and the lower edges with a living
web of trees. Yes, I see those beings decorating and fashioning
the scene until, thanks to their labours, this gracious morsel
of the earth has become fair beyond all conception.

And what a privilege it is to be human! How much that is
wonderful leaps to the eye-how the presence of beauty causes.
the heart to throb with a voluptuous rapture that is almost pain!