ey flash and glitter like frost in the sun. But
underneath, they are tinged with a faint pink or rose-colour. Those born
in spring have wings of a brilliant green, green as grass; and
towards the edges the feathers are enamelled like the surface of the
grass-blades. These again are white within. Those that are born in
summer have wings of a deep rose-colour, lined with pale gold. And those
born in autumn have purple wings, with a rich brown on the inside. But
these colours are modified and altered in all varieties, corresponding
to the mood of the day and hour, as well as the season of the year; and
sometimes I found the various colours so intermingled, that I could not
determine even the season, though doubtless the hieroglyphic could be
deciphered by more experienced eyes. One splendour, in particular, I
remember--wings of deep carmine, with an inner down of warm gray, around
a form of brilliant whiteness.

She had been found as the sun went down through a low sea-fog, casting
crimson along a broad sea-path into a little cave on the shore, where a
bathing maiden saw her lying.

But though I speak of sun and fog, and sea and shore, the world there
is in some respects very different from the earth whereon men live.
For instance, the waters reflect no forms. To the unaccustomed eye they
appear, if undisturbed, like the surface of a dark metal, only that
the latter would reflect indistinctly, whereas they reflect not at all,
except light which falls immediately upon them. This has a great effect
in causing the landscapes to differ from those on the earth. On
the stillest evening, no tall ship on the sea sends a long wavering
reflection almost to the feet of him on shore; the face of no maiden
brightens at its own beauty in a still forest-well. The sun and moon
alone make a glitter on the surface. The sea is like a sea of death,
ready to ingulf and never to reveal: a visible shadow of oblivion. Yet
the women sport in its waters like gorgeous sea-birds. The men more
rarely enter them. But, on the contrary, the sky reflects everything
beneath it, as if it were built of water like ours. Of course, from
its concavity there is some distortion of the reflected objects; yet
wondrous combinations of form are often to be seen in the overhanging
depth. And then it is not shaped so much like a round dome as the sky of
the earth, but, more of an egg-shape, rises to a great towering height
in the middle, appearing far more lofty than