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Updated: May 16, 2025
He bent over her and kissed her forehead lightly, as though he were in fear of too familiar approach to a thing too sacred for a rude caress. A great surf-like rush of comprehension swept over the woman. "Was I so loved as this so honoured?" Then she said suddenly, "You are pale are you in pain?" for she saw him grasp the wounded arm and set his teeth.
But a thick grove of pine and fir trees, almost brushing the two windows upon the right of the door, and occupying the space between them and the road, suggests at least a peculiar taste in the retired merchant, or hints the possibility that he may have sold his place to a poet or philosopher or to some old East India sea-captain, perhaps, who cannot sleep without the sound of waves, and so plants pines to rustle, surf-like, against his chamber window.
Yet that great, surf-like flame, rushing up and on, was rioting at the very head of Summer Street, and plunging down Washington. Trinity Church was already a blazing wreck. "Has it come up Summer Street, or how?" asked Bel, helplessly, of helpless Miss Smalley. "Do you suppose Fillmer & Bylles is burnt?" "I must ask somebody!"
He brushed her sleeve with a light pressure. "Make it your holiday, too. Let yourself go." "Our holiday, then," she assented; "no past, no future, just here and now." Copying nature's lead, the character of the park changed by and by; the way rose from a sun-shot ravine and wound a wooded hill full of forest scents and subdued surf-like echoings of the city's roar.
It was wild weather weather that sent the blood tingling through the veins and whipped red into one's cheeks. I got into Mr. Jelnik's grounds through the hedge behind the spring-house, and ran like a hare through his garden. I had to hammer upon his door before I could make Achmet hear me, so loud and surf-like was the noise of the wind in the trees.
But to those who beheld it from the gig, there was an idea of danger in their majestic movement, heightened by the surf-like sound of their respirations. They had nearly all passed, and the crew of the gig were beginning to breathe freely; when they perceived the largest of the lot the old bull astern of the rest and coming right towards them.
The grating of our voices on this supreme silence reminds one of 'Why will you still be talking, Monsieur Benedick? nobody marks you. "There are silences, and again there are whole symphonies of sound. The winds smites the tree-tops over our heads, a surf-like roar comes up the slope, and the yellow pine-needles fall across the deepest darks as motes sail down a sunbeam.
The perfume of new-mown hay and the breath of roses, came mingled with the distant music of bells, and the twittering song of birds, and a low surf-like sound of the wind in summer woods.
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