ting the downfall of Pompey's host, through depriving his
iron-built legions of the use of their legs as they revelled in the
intoxicating sweetness of the "mead" or honey which wild bees make from
the blossoms of the laurel and the azalea, and travellers still gather
from those hollow stems to knead into lavashi or thin cakes of millet
flour.

On the present occasion I too (after suffering sundry stings from
infuriated bees) was thus engaged as I sat on the rocks beneath the
chestnuts. Dipping morsels of bread into a potful of honey, I was
munching them for breakfast, and enjoying, at the same time, the
indolent beams of the moribund autumn sun.

In the fall of the year the Caucasus resembles a gorgeous cathedral
built by great craftsmen (always great craftsmen are great sinners) to
conceal their past from the prying eyes of conscience. Which cathedral
is a sort of intangible edifice of gold and turquoise and emerald, and
has thrown over its hills rare carpets silk-embroidered by Turcoman
weavers of Shemi and Samarkand, and contains, heaped everywhere,
plunder brought from all the quarters of the world for the delectation
of the sun. Yes, it is as though men sought to say to the Sun God: "All
things here are thine. They have been brought hither for thee by thy
people."

Yes, mentally I see long-bearded, grey-headed supermen, beings
possessed of the rounded eyes of happy children, descending from the
hills, and decking the earth, and sowing it with sheerly kaleidoscopic
treasures, and coating the tops of the mountains with massive layers of
silver, and the lower edges with a living web of trees. Yes, I see
those beings decorating and fashioning the scene until, thanks to their
labours, this gracious morsel of the earth has become fair beyond all
conception.

And what a privilege it is to be human! How much that is wonderful
leaps to the eye-how the presence of beauty causes. the heart to throb
with a voluptuous rapture that is almost pain!

And though there are occasions when life seems hard, and the breast
feels filled with fiery rancour, and melancholy dries and renders
athirst the heart's blood, this is not a mood sent us in perpetuity.
For at times even the sun may feel sad as he contemplates men, and sees
that, despite all that he has done for them, they have done so little
in return....

No, it is not that good folk are lacking. It is that they need to be
rounded off--better still, to be made anew.