the September noon
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 . This association was a little like the one that later established itself for me between the sad falsetto of the Arab songs , the snowy splendor of their mosques and the winding-sheet whiteness of their lime-washed porticos . That butterfly in all the freshness and radiance of its two strange colors , mummified , it is true , but as brilliant looking as ever under its glass , retains for me a sort of old-time charm which I cherish . The little St. Hermangardes , whom I have not seen for many years , and who are now attached to an embassy somewhere in the Orient , would doubtless , should they read this , be much astonished to learn what value circumstances has given to their little present .