Or again, those wisps of mist were like
gossamers as they floated along, and they would bend and
fold over on the boughs before they tore; and where they
broke, they seemed like comets to trail a thinner tail
of themselves behind. There was tenacity in them, a
certain consistency which made them appear as if woven
of different things from air and mere moisture. I have
often doubted my memory here, and yet I have my very
definite notes, and besides there is the picture in my
mind. In spite of my own uncertainty I can assure you,
that this is only one quarter a poem woven of impressions;
the other three quarters are reality. But, while I am
trying to set down facts, I am also trying to render
moods and images begot by them...
We went on for an hour, and it lengthened out into two.
No twigs and boughs any longer, at last. But where I was,
I knew not. Much as I listened, I could not make out any
difference in the tramp of the horses now I looked down
over the back of my buggy seat, and I seemed to see the
yellow or brownish clay of a grade. I went on rather
thoughtlessly. Then, about eleven o'clock, I noticed that
the road was rough.
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