Jane observed just now that she was sure the days were drawing out.
We laughed, as we were expected to, at the immemorial remark, but we
cheerfully agreed that there was truth in it. We looked at our
watches. It was past four and the landscape of half a dozen counties
still lay, darkening but visible from the hillside, while in the
garden the thrushes were singing as though it were a summer evening.
The moon, which had been faintly visible long before the sun had set,
was beginning to take up "the wondrous tale." It was that bewitching
moment of the day when the two luminaries are about equally matched
and the light of the moon filters through the light of the day and a
new scheme of shadows begins to take shape about you as you walk.
If I were asked to name the chief difference between living in town
(as I used to do) and living in the country (as I now chiefly do), I
think I should say that it consisted in the place which the moon
fills in our everyday life, especially of course in the dark season
of the year. It might almost be said that we do not discover the
moon until we live in the country. In town it is only another and a
rather larger lamp hung aloft the street. We do not need it to light
us on our way and are indifferent to its coming and going. If it
shines, well; if it does not shine, no matter. We go about our
business in either case, and do not consult the calendar to know
whether such-and-such a night will be light enough to go to the
theatre or to dinner with Aunt Anne at Kensington, as the case may
be. Nothing but fog can interfere with these amenities and the
calendar is uninformed as to the vagaries of the fog.
But in the country the moon is not an unconsidered and casual visitor
whose movements are of such little account that we do not trouble to
study them. It is, on the contrary, the most important and most
discussed neighbour we have. In town we do not think of the moon in
neighbourly terms. It is something remote and foreign, that does not
come within the scope of our system. We should miss the lamp across
the road that sends a friendly ray through our window-curtains all
night, and if we went down to Piccadilly Circus one evening and did
not see the coloured signs twinkling on the shop-fronts we should
feel lonely and bereaved. But if the moon did not turn up one
evening according to plan, hardly one Londoner in a thousand would
notice the fact. He would read about it in the newspapers next day
and talk about it coming up to the City in the tube, but he would not
have discovered the fact himself or have been sensible of any loss.
It is otherwise with us country bumpkins. The neighbourliness of the
moon and of the stars is one of the alleviations of our solitude. We
have no street lamps or pretty coloured sky-signs to look at, and so
we look at the Great Bear and Orion, the Sickle and the Pleiades,
trace out Cassiopeia's chair and watch to see Sirius come up over the
hilltop like a messenger bearing thrilling tidings. We know they are
far off, but there is nothing between us, and intimacy seems to make
them curiously near and friendly. A cloudy night that blots out the
stars is as gloomy an experience for us as an accident at the
electric power-house that puts out the street lights and plunges the
house in darkness is to the dweller in Hampstead or Clapham.
But it is the moon that is our most precious neighbour. Its phases
are as much a part of the practical mechanism of life as the
winding-up of the clock, and the hour of its rising and setting
regulates our comings and goings. If it failed to turn up one night
all the countryside would know about it. There would be a universal
hue-and-cry and no one would sleep in his bed for watching. When the
sickle of the new moon appears in the sunset sky the cheerful nights
set in. There is no need to light the lantern if we want to go to
the wood-shed or to the chicken-run at the end of the garden to
investigate some unfamiliar sound that proceeds from thence. If
there is anything contemplated at the village schoolroom down in the
valley it is fixed for an evening when the moon is high to light us
by road or field-path; and when the moon is near the full we reach
the high festival of our country nights. Then, no matter how busy
the day has been or how comfortable the fireside is, the call of our
neighbour the moon to come out and see the magic he can throw over
the landscape is irresistible.
It is irresistible now. While I have been writing, the moon has been
gathering power. The night is clear and full of stars. There is the
glisten of frost on the grass. The wind has fallen and the plain
that glimmers below in the moonlight is soundless. It would be a sin
not to be abroad on such a night. Moreover Ben and Jeff need a run
before settling down for sleep. They love the moonlight too, not for
its poetry but for its aid in the ceaseless, but ever unrewarded,
task of exploring rabbit-holes and other futile hints of sport.
"Come, Ben! Come, Jeff! ... Walk."