The Centaurians

Twelve long years of European travel had failed to stale the beauties of my own country. I compared the exquisite, restful view, to the garish expansiveness of foreign panorama. Though fagged and frayed with experience it was a tingling delight to gaze once again upon this fair, smiling, home country, whose mountain-lined distance of vivid heliotrope formed superb contrast to waving fields of deep yellow corn.

I flung aside the book I was reading with its repellant thoughts; the dewy freshness of a bright July morning weaned me from poppy-drugged ideas. I faltered at the grand finale of this wonderful collection of moods and wandered out in the glorious sunshine and fields beyond. Upon a huge mound of hay I lolled, enjoying the delicate fragrance of roses mingled with the heavy, pungent scent of carnations, and lazily watched blue butterflies flitting above, while black field reptiles ventured close, wondering what species I might be, then vanishing at the least movement. The hum of insects seemingly swelled to the city's roar; all nature was active with industry, I alone was the drone, though master of this rural, enchanting, warm, lazy scene, which, like a veil, spread over the vast area of my possessions.