some weird story, grey Prague, shrouded in thick smoke. At the right lay the open plain. Burning through the pure air, the gleaming light of the sun trembled upon it like fleeting gold. All the colors were fresh as if the country had been newly washed.
Parallelograms of many hues ran, narrowing down, to the very edge of the horizon. The railroad track, roads with diminutive rows of trees, brown hills, villages that seemed to be drowning in the verdure of gardens, farther away dark-blue forests, and still farther, blue summits, lightly breathed upon the background,—a mere airy curtain,—an idyllic panorama, over which white cloudlets softly swam in the azure vault of heaven. Invisible sky-larks sent their gladsome shouts into the clear heights. On both sides of the road sounded the drummings of hosts of insects. The voices of men, the neighing of horses, the sharp click of whips now and then reached them from
