the most matter-of-fact individuals who ever breathed.
"I mind me how, many a time, when we have been sailing together outside
Plymouth Sound, where a clear view could be had of the setting sun, you
used to trace cloudy continents with bays, inlets, harbours, and
outlying islands in the western sky; yes, and even ships sailing among
them, and cities rearing themselves among the golden edges of the
clouds."

"Well, and was that so very wonderful?" retorted Stukely. "Look at
yonder sky, for instance. Can you not imagine that great purple mass of
cloud to be a vast island set in the midst of the sea represented by the
blue-green expanse of sky beyond it? And can you not see how the shape
of the cloud lends itself to the fancy of jutting capes and forelands,
of gulfs and sounds and estuaries? And look at those small, outlying
clouds nearest us; are not they the very image and similitude of islets
lying off the coast of the main island? And, as to cities, what can be
a more perfect picture of a golden city built along the shore of a
landlocked bay than that golden fringe of cloud yonder? And behold the
mountains and valleys--ay, and there is a lake opening up now in the
very centre of the island. Oh, Dick, my son, if you have not
imagination enough to translate these pictures of the evening sky into
glimpses of fairy land, and to derive pleasure therefrom, I pity you
from my very soul."

"Nay, then, no need to waste your pity on me, Sir Dreamer, for I need it
not," retorted Dick. "Doubtless you take joy of your fancies; but
realities are good enough for me, at least such realities as these.
Look at that bird hovering over yonder flower, for instance; smaller,
much smaller, than a wren is he, yet how perfectly shaped and how
gloriously plumaged. Look to the colour of him, as rich a purple as
that of your sunset cloud, with crest and throat like gold painted
green. And then, the long curved beak of him, see how daintily he dips
it into the cup of the flower and sips the honey therefrom. And his
wings, why they are whirring so quickly that you cannot see but can only
hear them! Can any of your fancies touch a thing like that for beauty?"

"That is as may be, Dick," answered Stukely. "The bird is beautiful,
undoubtedly, and no less beautiful is the flower from which he sips the
honey that constitutes his food; indeed all things are lovely, had we
but eyes to perceive their loveliness. But come, the sun has set,