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Updated: May 29, 2025
Those who have a taste for that sort of thing will find in a modern circulating library, elaborate accounts of enough “dew-spangled grass” to make hay for an army of Nebuchadnezzars and a hundred troops of horse—of “bright-eyed daisies” and “modest violets,” enough to fence all creation with a parti-colored hedge—of “early larks” and “sweet-singing nightingales,” enough to make musical pot-pies and harmonious stews for twenty generations of Heliogabaluses; to say nothing of the amount of twaddle we find in American sensation books about “hawthorn hedges” and “heather bells,” and similar transatlantic luxuries that don’t grow in America, and never did.
One thought only was uppermost in Daisy's mind as she sped swiftly down the flower-bordered path in the moonlight, away from the husband who was still so dear to her. "He did not recognize me," she panted, in a little quivering voice. "Would he have cursed me, I wonder, had he known it was I?" Down went the little figure on her knees in the dew-spangled grass with a sharp little cry.
"Don't frown," she admonished, "for with your face so bruised and swollen it do make you look that comical!" And laughing, she sped away, leaving me to scowl upon the empty air. But the morning was glorious; I stood in a dew-spangled world radiant with sunshine while all about me the feathered host, that choir invisible, poured forth a song of universal praise to greet this new-born day.
Unfeared and unfearing we'll traverse the wood, Where pours the rude torrent its turbulent flood: The forest's red children will smile as we scour By the log-fashioned hut and the pine-woven bower; Thy feathery footsteps scarce bending the grass, Or denting the dew-spangled moss where we pass "What startles thee?
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