An Afterglow
A perfect galaxy of delight welcomed me in the mail yesterday noon,—the young men bring the mail up after their midday meal. I know not whether it is their breakfast or dinner—and by the time they get back here again it is noon only by courtesy, being between two and three. In this galaxy shone forth a letter and a fat bunch of clippings. So I seem to have sold into the coming society set so to speak, and shall have a welcome pass to the stage entrance of the finest theatre in Boston! Well! Well! I wonder who financed the enterprise, but I congratulate her and it. Thank you for thus making me at home in Boston while at home out here.
It is really spring.—What is more, I do not remember ever having noticed the birds here so much before. The twittering and calls of the robins in the heavy air resurrect the springs of long ago, a thing unparalleled in this seasonless land. It is very lovely in the twilight while I wait outside the dome for Mr. Slipher to finish measuring his set.
Not only for the clippings,—a good one that from the Herald. My friends the Times apparently haven't yet got round. They had an editorial the other day on our latest Saturnian find; but also for the books, another star to the galaxy, am I beholden.
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