"'Which way do you usually go home?' I asked."
She told me. It was a suitably unfrequented path.
So presently I strolled thither; and seated myself under the trees in a bosky dell.
Now, there is a quality in boskiness not inappropriate to romantic thoughts. Boskiness, cigarettes, a soft afternoon in June, the hum of bees, and the distant barking of the seals, all these were delicately blending to inspire in me a bashful sentiment.
A specimen of Papilio turnus, di-morphic form, Glaucus, alighted near me; I marked its flight with scientific indifference. Yet it is a rare species in Bronx Park.
A mock-orange bush was in snowy bloom behind me; great bunches of wistaria hung over the rock beside me.