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Updated: May 12, 2025
She had not found it before he said, slowly: "All yon is Jason's." "What?" she asked, puzzled. He pointed with one sweep of his long arm to the quivering mass of green-gold foliage that swept from swamp to horizon. "All yon golden fleece is Jason's now," he repeated. "I thought it was Cresswell's," she said. "That's what I mean." She suddenly understood that the story had sunk deeply.
Father and I returned to Bareilly soon after the crematory rites for the well-beloved. Early every morning I made a pathetic memorial pilgrimage to a large SHEOLI tree which shaded the smooth, green-gold lawn before our bungalow. In poetical moments, I thought that the white SHEOLI flowers were strewing themselves with a willing devotion over the grassy altar.
They did not stir. Again the stallion nickered, and all that moved was a flock of wild canaries, upspringing from the flowers and shrubs of the court, rising like a green-gold spray of light flung from the sunrise.
He was dizzy with the beauty of the music he had been hearing. He had a sense somewhere in the distances of his mind of the great rhythm of the sea. People chattered all about him on the wide, crowded balcony, but he was only conscious of the blue-grey mistiness of the night where the lights made patterns in green-gold and red-gold.
One August evening found Cynthia thus beside a poplar in front of Amos Cuthbert's farmhouse, a poplar that shimmered green-gold in the late afternoon, and from the buggy-seat Cynthia looked down upon a thousand purple hilltops and mountain peaks of another state.
To some the glad moment may have arrived on other provocations; and their recollection may be most vivid of the stately gait of women carrying burthens on their heads; of tropical effects, with canes and naked rock and sunlight; of the relief of cypresses; of the troubled, busy-looking groups of sea-pines, that seem always as if they were being wielded and swept together by a whirlwind; of the air coming, laden with virginal perfumes, over the myrtles and the scented underwood; of the empurpled hills standing up, solemn and sharp, out of the green-gold air of the east at evening.
They passed berry-bushes raspberry and blackberry and currant, now turned wild; green-gold bushes that were a net for sunbeams. They saw yellow warblers flicker away, a king-bird swoop, a scarlet tanager glisten in flight. "Wonder what that red bird is?" He admiringly looked to her to know. "Why, I think that's a cardinal." "Golly! I wish I knew about nature."
There they passed into a walk completely arched over with the bushes of the Mar Pacifico, the rose of the Pacific, a verdurous tunnel of leaves and broad fragrant pink blooms, with a farther glimpse of a cascade over mossy rocks. The stream entered a canal, holding some gaily painted and cushioned row boats, and a green-gold flotilla of Mandarin ducks.
The night had its own life, just as the daylight hours held theirs. Only a few of those sounds could he identify, even less did he see. There was one wide-winged, huge flying thing which passed across the green-gold plate of the nearer moon. It was so large that for an instant Travis believed the helicopter had come.
"I am Lord Green-Gold, I offer my house, my fortune and my love to Princess Hotaru." "Go and bring me fire and I will be your bride" said Hotaru-himé. With a bow of the head the beetle opened his wings and departed with a stately whirr. Next came a shining bug with wings and body as black as lamp-smoke, who solemnly professed his passion. "Bring me fire and you may have me for your wife."
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