The San Francisco call., 1897-10-17

At first you are OILY aware of an army of
unassuming brownies, but watching them
carefully you discover that a skilled artist
has daintily adorned each mem Der of this
host and given it a distinct individuality.
No two are to be found of precisely the
same tint and wing pattern-soft grays,
varied browns, black and white, copper.
bronze, silver, FURNISHED gold, vaudyked,
spotted, spangled, scaloped, smooth
edged, with quivering, feathered an.
tenne or without plumes. These mites in
fur and feather are undoubtedly things of
beauty and might be joys forever if we
could be content to ignore their proceedings
and view them patiently through the
magnifying glass. Some of the smallest
are but tiny scraps OF gold or silver tinsel,
and with each troop invariably come two
leaders of fashion-my lady Greenwings
and my lady Whitesatin, queens and
rivals. each with her court and pride of
place, yet living in apparent harmony.
Dame Whitesatin and Dame Greenwings
are not in reality one whit superior to
their satellites, rather perhaps the reverse
their exquisite tinting is absolutely
expressionlegs; there is no attempt
at tracery or artistic WORK in their
shimmering attire. Yet our senses are so
appealed TO by the exquisite Transparent
jade Of the one, the opal sheen of the
other, that we make pers stent effort to
save them from the sacrificial lamp in
which their followers are immolattd with
impunity. The sirens of the eye, thew.
whose subtle spell make US ignore more
classic beauty,
Or nerchance tho INVADING arr,r ;s ~.
our metallic legion, with its jade and
opaline leaders; perhaps these are
crowded out by the Black Musouetecrs.
large, heavy, self-assertive, with magniti-
cent sable velvet wings, which, when
spread, display undergarments of black
satin, studded with turquoise-our picked
regiment of grands seigneurs, their black
caps formed of miniature ostrich feathers.
and Old World pride of caste stamped on
every one of them. Trust them not, there
fore; their blue blood is vitiated. their
souls are fetid; they are the Regiment of
Evil. Wherever they pass the air
grows heavy with nauseous smell:
wherever they poise they leave their
trace of dirt and disease. Their
mad and noisy dance, their wild orgy, lasts
far into the night, and in the morning the
place that has known them is foul and
noisome; the food they have brushed is
evil-smelling or rank. And as they flop
and whirl. fiutter and buzz in mad revel.
the Spirit of the Bush walls its cry out
side:
"shall night bring sorrowa Ay, labor
and SORROW"
The bush bird may we'll wall piteously
up here in Avele, for his cry quivers
across ghostIy soil. It is not only the
spirit of the outraged bush that haunts
the place; not only the phan oms of desc.
Grated earth and uptorn creeper and felIed
tree. There are other phantoms-those OF
a scattered, decimated race, for legend
has it that Avele was thickly populated
till an epidemic came. sweeping away the
Inhabitants by hundreds. Time has fed,
tree and underground have covered the
once-tilled ground in rich profusion, but
the land remains a cemetery and its
ghosts wander forth at night. As the
hours of vigil wane and the darkness
deepens you recall the tradition, you be-
come creepingly alive to strange forms
and nameless mysteries lurking behind
every bush.
But the voices of the night keep you
company; the birds vie with each other
to cheer you. Long after twilight hour
they are still keeping up the concert,
chatter1rg, piping, cooling, mewing,
whistling with joyous energy. The lao is
the latest songster of all, as he will be the
earliest But at last even his serenade is