(From the beginning): Drought since December He snaps on the electricity just before daybreak. For twenty five years he has not lived in this country, though up to the age of eleven he slept in rooms like this--with no curtains, just delicate bars across the windows so no one could break in. and the floors of red cement polished smooth, cool against bare feet. Dawn through a garden. Clarity to leaves, fruit, the dark yellow of the King Coconut. This delicate light is allowed only a brief moment of the day. In ten minutes the garden will lie in a blaze of heat, frantic with noise and butterflies. Half a page--and the morning is already ancient.

D. Pedro: Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what's the matter, that you have such a February face, so full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness? (from Much Ado About Nothing, Act V, scene iii.)

We attain to dwelling, so it seems, only by means of building. The latter, building, has the former, dwelling, as its goal. Still, not every building is a dwelling. Bridges and hangars, stadiums and power stations are buildings but not dwellings; railway stations and highways, dams and market halls are built, but they are not dwelling places. Even so, these buildings are in the domain of our dwelling. That domain extends over these buildings and yet is not limited to the dwelling place.

In summer's heat, and mid-time of the day, To rest my limbs, upon a bed I lay, One window shut, the other open stood, Which gave such light, as twinkles in a wood, Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun,

"Am I sad? Not at all. Because everything about that lake was imprinted on my mind when it held so little and was so eager for information., it will be my lake as long as I live. I have no wish to visit it, for I have it all right here. I happened to see it last spring from about six miles up, on a flight from Louisville to Chicago. It was as emotionally uninvolving as a bit of dry dust viewed under a microscope. Again: That wasn't the real Maxincuckee down there. The real one is in my head. "The one in my head is the one I swam across, all two and one-half miles of it, when I as eleven years old, with my sister, five years older than me, and my brother, nine years older than me, in a leaky rowboat near me, urging me on. My sister died thirty years ago. My brother, an atmospheric scientist, is still going strong, daydreaming about clouds and electricity. Time change, but my lake never will.

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