CHAPTER IX
NIGHT: IT IS BAD LUCK TO SING BEFORE BREAKFAST
There was a lace of faint mists along the creek and beyond, when John and
Helen reached their bench (of course they went back there), and broken
roundelays were croaking from a bayou up the stream, where rakish frogs
held carnival in resentment of the lonesomeness. The air was still and
close. Hundreds of fire-flies coquetted with the darkness amongst the
trees across the water, glinting from unexpected spots, shading their
little lanterns for a second to glow again from other shadows. The sky was
a wonderful olive green; a lazy cloud drifted in it and lapped itself
athwart the moon.
"The dead painters design the skies for us each day and night, I think,"
Helen said, as she dropped a little scarf from her shoulders and leaned
back on the bench. "It must be the only way to keep them happy and busy
'up there.' They let them take turns, and those not on duty, probably
float around and criticise."
"They've given a good man his turn to-night," said John; "some quiet
colorist, a poetic, friendly soul, no Turner--though I think I've seen a
Turner sunset or two in Plattville."
"It was a sculptor's sunset this evening. Did you see it?--great massy
clouds piled heap on heap, almost with violence. I'm sure it was
Michelangelo. The judge didn't think it meant Michelangelo; he thought it
meant rain.
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