By the happiest of
chances we had come upon the home of some people whom we had casually
met upon the St. John's River only a few weeks before, and our dearest
and oldest friends could not have welcomed us more cordially or have
been more gladly met by us.
In the early morning we heard again, between sleeping and waking, the
musical cow-call. It echoed among the hills and over the lakes: there
were the tinkling of bells, the pattering of hoofs, the eager,
impatient sounds of a herd of cattle glad of morning freedom. It was
like a dream of Switzerland. And, hastening out, we found the dream but
vivified by the intense purity of the air surcharged with ozone, the
exquisite clearness of the outlines of the hills, the sparkling
brightness of the lakes in the valley, the freshness of glory and
beauty which overspread all like a world new made.
One of the great events of that day was a desperate fight between two
chameleons in a low oak-scrub on the hilltop. The little creatures
attacked each other with such fury, with such rapid changes of color
from gray to green and from green to brown, with such unexpected
mutations of shape from long and slender to short and squat, with such
sudden dartings out and angry flamings of the transparent membrane
beneath the throat, with such swift springs and flights and glancings
to and fro, as were wonderful to see.
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