My heart beats like the music of Schumann, in easy, graceful rhythm with an undertone of power. My strong and sensitive nerves are reeking and swimming in sensuality like drunken little Bacchantes, gay and garlanded in mad revelling. The entire wonderful, graceful mechanism of my woman’s-body has fallen at the time--like the wonderful, graceful mechanism of my woman’s-mind--under the enchanting spell of a day in October. “It is good,” I think to myself, “oh, it is good to be alive! It is wondrously good to be a woman young in the fullness of nineteen springs. It is unutterably lovely to be a healthy young animal living on this charmed earth.” After I have walked for several hours I reach a region where the sulphur smoke has not penetrated, and I sit on the ground with drawn-up knees and rest as the shadows lengthen. The shadows lengthen early in October. Presently I lie flat on my back and stretch my lithe slimness to its utmost like a mountain lioness taking her comfort. I am intensely thankful to the Devil for my two good legs and the full use of them under a short skirt, when, as now, they carry me out beyond the pale of civilization away from tiresome dull people. There is nothing in the world that can become so maddeningly wearisome as people, people, people! And so, Devil, accept, for my two good legs, my sincerest gratitude. I lie on the ground for some minutes and meditate idly. There is a worldful of easy indolent, beautiful sensuality in the figure of a young woman lying on the ground under a warm setting sun. A man may lie on the ground--but that is as far as it goes. A man would go to sleep, probably, like a dog or a pig. He would even snore, perhaps--under the setting sun. But then, a man has not a good young feminine body to feel with, to receive into itself the spirit of a warm sun at its setting, on a day in October,--and so let us forgive him for sleeping, and for snoring. When I rise again to a sitting posture all the brightness has focused itself to the west. It casts a yellow glamor over the earth, a glamor not of joy, nor of pleasure, nor of happiness--but of peace. The young poplar trees smile gently in the deathly still air. The sage brush and the tall grass take on a radiant quietness. The high hills of Montana, near and distant, appear tender and benign. All is peace--peace. I think of that beautiful old song: “Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade----.” But I am too young yet to think of peace. It is not peace that I want. Peace is for forty and fifty. I am waiting for my Experience. I am awaiting the coming of the Devil. And now, just before twilight, after the sun has vanished over the edge, is the red, red line on the sky. There will be days wild and stormy, filled with rain and wind and hail; and yet nearly always at the sun’s setting there will be calm--and the red line of sky.