summer noon
As soon as my eyes rested upon it I seemed to hear drawled out lazily , in a mountaineer 's treble , the refrain : `` Ah ! ah ! the good , good story ! '' And again I saw the white porch of Bories in the midst of the silence and the hot sunshine of a summer noon . A deep regret for past and gone vacations took possession of me ; I felt saddened when I tried to recreate days belonging to a dead past , and tried to imagine vacations still to come ; but mingled in with sentiments that I can name , there were those other inexpressible ones that well up from the unfathomable deeps of one 's being . This association between the butterfly , the song and Bories caused me for a long time an extreme sadness that , try as hard as I may , I can not explain satisfactorily ; and the feeling continued until stormy and tempestuous winds swept over my life and carried away with them the small concerns belonging to my childhood . Sometimes , upon gray winters evenings , when I looked at the butterfly I would sing to myself the little refrain of the `` good , good story ; '' to accomplish this I had to make my voice very flute-like ; and as I sang , the porch of Bories appeared to me more vividly than ever , as it stood , sunny but desolate , under the dazzling light of the September noon .