half past five
Higher than the buildings in brown , a gray-shingled bungalow ranged itself on the lap of its broad lawns against a slope of orchard tops climbing to the dark environment of the forest . Not the original forest : of that only three stark pines were left , which rose one hundred feet out of a gulch below the house and lent their ancient majesty to the modern uses of electric wires and telephone lines . Their dreaming tops were in the sky ; their feet were in the sluicings of the stamp-mill that reared its long brown back in a semi-recumbent posture , resting one elbow on the hill ; and beneath the valley smouldered , a pale mirage by day , by night a vision of color transcendent and rich as the gates of the Eternal City . At half past five the night watchman , on his way from town , stopped at the superintendent 's gate , ran up the blazing path , and thrust a newspaper between the dark blue canvas curtains that shaded the entrance of the porch . For hours the house had slept behind its heat defenses , every shutter closed , yards of piazza blind and canvas awning fastened down . The sun , a ball of fire , went slowly down the west . Rose-vines drooped against the hanging lattices , printing their watery lines of split bamboo with a shadow-pattern of leaf and flower .