"She turned her face to his, and the tears glistened like star dust."
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By What Mystic Mooring
By Frank Owen
The fog is on Yesterdays edge—for Time ceases when the mists begin.
The morning had been dull, dreary. In Buitenzorg, all activity ceased. It was a moment of languor, of repose. The usual strident voices of the surrounding forests were suppressed, as though nature had ended her song on a high note of which but a faint echo remained. Over the Javanese city, a fog was slowly descending, a strange fog that shimmered and glowed with a thou-
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