Trees they are of the most delicate shapes, the most springy green. Now there is a waterfall, a pool at the bottom, and a tame elephant up to his eyes in the clean water. His goodwife is on the bank; she shivers and coquettes and daintily tries the temperature with her foot, and says, if he'll excuse her, she really thinks she will not bathe to-day. And of a sudden she gathers herself into an object-lesson of prehistoric dignity, elemental force,—what you will,—strides boldly in, and "What the devil have time, space, heat, and cold to do with me?" says she. And now the elephants are left behind, and away down the hill I behold, with mixed feelings, an ancestor of mine—but not of yours, Phylis! He is in the top of a high tree, hugging himself.
I am writing too longly. But, dear Phylis, I have been through the Valley of the Shadow, and it is so good to be alive again, and cool, and writing to you.
Will you give my regards to your people?
Tomas Beauling.
