it and tangling and untangling itself, and veiling everything with the smoky streamers of its seed-whorls. The vines wrestled with each other clear down to the water, and that was yellow, as usual, and scarcely rippling at all;—and away over on the other side, a half a mile across, were the blue Virginia hills. It was warm and still, with just a little rustle of the leaves, and now and then the splash of a catfish in the water. It seems to me that I never saw the colors so beautiful before; and Uncle Rob was so enthusiastic over everything, that we were all desperately proud because all of this "belonged" to us. I believe that the only time we ever seem to realize that everything beautiful really belongs to each one of us, is when we take some one to see some particular place or thing that he has never seen before. We feel, for the moment, all the pride of possession, and all of the generosity and delight of sharing a real treasure with him. (Isn't it odd how words and phrases come, and arrange themselves right, when we are thinking big thoughts? I believe we'd all use better language, if we thought better thoughts. I know I surprise myself sometimes, when I forgot the way I'm saying things.
