and seat te squares under t; rest tips of tand; aneous movement lift tly poise t te, t violin counts one, three—

    Flouris! tree on top of tain. Fountains jet; drops descend. But ters of t and deep, race under trailing er leaves, ed fis ers, no into an eddy  tion of fis t te spirals into tepping ligted under arco side, hum, hah!

    “t’s an early Mozart, of course—”

    “But tune, like all unes, makes one despair—I mean  do I mean? t’s t of music! I  to dance, laug pink cakes, yello story, no at? You said notleman opposite. . . But suppose—suppose—hush!”

    trailing . oven togetricably commingled, bound in pain and strewn in sorrow—crash!

    t sinks. Rising, t noapering to a dusky ipped, dras t sings, unseals my sorroes its tenderness but deftly, subtly,  until in ttern, tion, t ones unify; soar, sob, sink to rest, sorrow and joy.

    ? Remain unsatisfied? I say all’s been settled; yes; laid to rest under a coverlet of rose leaves, falling. Falling. A t, like a little parace dropped from an invisible balloon, turns, flutters   reach us.

    “No, no. I noticed not’s t of music—te, you say?”

    “t—blinder eachis slippery floor.”

    Eyeless old age, grey–ands on t, beckoning, so sternly, the red omnibus.

    “hey play! how—how—how!”

    tongue is but a clapper. Simplicity itself. t next me are brigtle. tree flasain. Very strange, very exciting.

    “how—how—how!” hush!

    the grass.

    “If, madam, you ake my hand—”

    “Sir, I