Excerpt from David Ellington
The day ne ver broke more beautifully than on the seventeenth of April. It was one of those bright delicious mornings which occasionally take us by surprise in the early months, the more delightful because they stand out from the harsh and grating season like the beautiful flowers of the pactus from their unsightly trunk. I think there was not a cloud in the Whole sky; and as the light cautiously stole up from the eastern horizon like the gentlest pencilings of the northern aurora, it presently spread into a wide soft blush which might remind the reader of Pope’s Homer’s rosy-fingered mom. The air was silent and motionless as if it were watching that fair phenommon in the east.
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