THE TOWN.


soms, drop white petals on the worn, wet bricks
of the path; all is very silent, drunk with sun and
air and perfume. There is no thought, no ten-
sion, no meaning, anywhere. A wooden bench,
painted green very long ago, has crumbled and
rotted, and breaking in the middle fallen down
into the deep grass. A single shaft of sunshine
threading the shadows, strikes hot upon a line
of rusted nail-heads that hold it to the support-
ing post beneath; and there a lizard, bright-
eyed, alert, lies like a scarlet thread. A cloud
of midges circle above the fallen blossoms of the
orange-tree, which are floating in the clear, dark
water in the stone basin. The years have left-
no more permanent life here than the dancing
midge, or the white cup of a fallen flower !
 There is an empty wicker cage under the
hanging balcony of one of the deserted houses
about which such gardens lie; but the bird
must have flown away a score of years ago, and
not even a hint of its grief and its captivity
remains, for a scarlet tanager balances gayly
upon the swinging door before it darts like a
winged flame up into the blue.