IN WHICH WE CATCH UP WITH SUMMER Some eminent wayfarers--one peculiarly beloved--have discoursed on the romantic charm of maps.

But they have dwelt chiefly on the suggestiveness of them before the journey: these unknown names of unknown places, in types of mysteriously graduated importance--what do they stand for?
These mazy lines, some faint and wayward as a hair, and some straight and decided as a steel track--whence and whither do they lead?
I love the map best when the journey is done--when I can pore on its lines as into the lined face of some dear friend with whom I have travelled the years, and say--here this happened, here that befell! This almost invisible dot is made of magic rocks and is filled with the song of rapids; this infinitesimal fraction of "Scale five miles to the inch" is a haunted valley of purple pine-woods, and the moon rising, and the lonely cry of a sheep that has lost her little one somewhere in the folds of the hills.
Here, where is no name, stands an old white church with a gilded cross, among little white houses huddled together under a bluff.

In yonder garden the priest's cassock and trousers are hanging sacrilegiously on a clothes-line, and you can just see a tiny graveyard away up on the hillside almost hidden in the trees.
Even sacred vestments must be laundered by earthly laundresses, yet somehow it gives one a shock to see sacred vestments out of the sanctuary, profanely displayed on a clothes-line.

It is as though one should turn the sacred chalice into a tea-pot.

A priest's trousers on a clothes-line might well be the beginning of atheism.