"Signs," said Uncle Felix, after a pause. This time he did not make a
question of his thought, but merely dropped the word out like a note
of music into the air. His feather answered it and took it further.
The Tramp caught the word flying before it reached the ground:
"Deep, tender, kind and beautiful," he said, "but above all--
beautiful." He turned his shaggy head and looked about him carelessly.
"There's one of them, for instance," he added, pointing across the
lawn. "There's a sign. It means he's passed that way! He ain't too far
away--may-be."
They followed the direction of his eyes. A dragon-fly paused hovering
above the stream, its reflection mirrored in the clear running water
underneath. Against the green palisade of reeds its veined and crystal
wings scattered the sunlight into shining flakes. The blue upon its
body burned--a patch of flaming beauty in mid-air. They watched it for
a moment. Then, suddenly--it was gone, the spot was empty. But the
speed, the poise, the perfect movement, the flashing wings, above all
the flaming blue upon its tail still held them spellbound. Somehow, it
seemed, they had borrowed that speed, that flashing beauty, making the
loveliness part and parcel of themselves.
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