"WHERE IS THAT IDIOT, THAT DOLT, THAT SLUGGARD,THAT SNAIL, WITH MY MAIL?"
"WALKING AWAY WITH A SHRUG OF THESHOULDERS"
"HER HEART DROVE HER TO THE WINDOW"
"ALL THAT DAY WAS DESPONDENCY, DEJECTION"
"THIS TIME WE HAVE CAUGHT IT!"
"THE QUIET, DIM-LIGHTED ROOM OF ACONVALESCENT"
"TO POSE IN ABJECT PATIENCE ANDAWKWARDNESS"
There is much of life passed on the balcony in a country wherethe summer unrolls in six moon-lengths, and where the nights haveto come with a double endowment of vastness and splendor tocompensate for the tedious, sun-parched days.
And in that country the women love to sit and talk together ofsummer nights, on balconies, in their vague, loose, whitegarments,—men are not balcony sitters,—with theirsleeping children within easy hearing, the stars breaking the cooldarkness, or the moon making a show of light—oh, such adiscreet show of light!--through the vines. And the childreninside, waking to go from one sleep into another, hear the low,soft mother-voices on the balcony, talking about this person andthat, old times, old friends, old experiences; and it seems tothem, hovering a moment in wakefulness, that there is no end of theworld or time, or of the mother-knowledge; but, illimitable as itis, the mother-voices and the mother-love and protection fill itall,—with their mother's hand in theirs, children are notafraid even of God,—and they drift into slumber again, theirlittle dreams taking all kinds of pretty reflections from the greatunknown horizon outside, as their fragile soap-bubbles take onreflections from the sun and clouds.
Experiences, reminiscences, episodes, picked up as only womenknow how to pick them up from other women's lives,—or otherwomen