a turning in the road reveals the whole broad azure calm below. Or, after
toiling up a steep ascent we fall upon the undergrowth of juniper, and lo!
a double sea, this way and that, divided by the sharp spine of the jutting
hill, jewelled with villages along its shore, and smiling with fair
islands and silver sails."

To many of us the mere warmth of the South is a blessing and a delight.
The very thought of it is delicious. I have read over again and again
Wallace's graphic description of a tropical sunrise--of the "sun of the
early morning that turneth all into gold." [3]

"Up to about a quarter past five o'clock," he says, "the darkness is
complete; but about that time a few cries of birds begin to break the
silence of night, perhaps indicating that signs of dawn are perceptible in
the eastern horizon. A little later the melancholy voices of the
goatsuckers are heard, varied croakings of frogs, the plaintive whistle of
mountain thrushes, and strange cries of birds or mammals peculiar to each
locality. About half-past five the first glimmer of light becomes
perceptible; it slowly becomes lighter, and then increases so rapidly that
at about a quarter to six it seems full daylight. For the next quarter of
an hour this changes very little in character; when, suddenly, the sun's
rim appears above the horizon, decking the dew-laden foliage with
glittering gems sending gleams of golden light far into the woods, and
waking up all nature to life and activity. Birds chirp and flutter about,
parrots scream, monkeys chatter, bees hum among the flowers, and gorgeous
butterflies flutter lazily along or sit with full expanded wings exposed
to the warm and invigorating rays. The first hour of morning in the
equatorial regions possesses a charm and a beauty that can never be
forgotten. All nature seems refreshed and strengthened by the coolness and
moisture of the past night, new leaves and buds unfold almost before the