A WINTER NIGHT: OLD TRICKS: PHEASANT-STALKING: MATCHLOCK _versus_
BREECH-LOADER: CONCLUSION
When the moon is full and nearly at the zenith it seems to move so
slowly that the shadows scarcely change their position. In winter, when
the branches are bare, a light that is nearly vertical over a tree can
cast but little shadow, and that falls immediately around the trunk. So
that the smallness of the shadow itself and the slowness of its motion
together tend to conceal it.
The snow on the ground increases the sense of light, and in approaching
the wood the scene is even more distinct than during the gloomy day.
The tips of the short stubble that has not yet been ploughed in places
just protrude above the surface, and the snow, frozen hard, crunches
with a low sound under foot. But for that all is perfectly still. The
level upland cornfields stretch away white and vacant to the
hills—white, too, and clear against the sky. The plain is silent, and
nothing that can be seen moves upon its surface.
On the verge of the wood which occupies the sloping ground there stands
a great oak tree, and down one side of its trunk is a narrow white
streak of snow. Leaning against the oak and looking upwards, every
branch and twig is visible, lit up by the moon. Overhead the stars are
dimmed, but they shine more brightly yonder above the hills. Such
leaves as have not yet fallen hang motionless: those that are lying on
the ground are covered by the snow, and thus held fast from rustling
even were the wind to blow. But there is not the least breath—a great
frost is always quiet, profoundly quiet—and the silence is undisturbed
even by the fall of a leaf. The frost that kills them holds the leaves
till it melts, and then they drop.
The tall ash poles behind in the wood stand stark and straight,
pointing upwards, and it is possible to see for some distance between
them. No lesser bats flit to and fro outside the fence under the
branches; no larger ones pass above the tops _of_ the trees. There
seems, indeed, a total absence of life. The pheasants are at roost in
the warmer covers; and the woodpigeons are also perched—some in the
detached oaks of the hedgerows, particularly those that are thickly
grown with ivy about the upper branches. Up in the great beeches the
rooks are still and silent; sometimes the boughs are encrusted with
rime about their very claws.
Leaving the oak now and skirting the wood, after a while the meadows on
the lower ground are reached; and here perhaps the slight scampering
sound of a rabbit may be heard. But as they can see and hear you so far
in the bright light and silence, they will most likely be gone before
you can get near. They are restless—very restless; first because of the
snow, and next because of the moonlight. The hares, unable to find
anything on the hills or the level white plain above, have come down
here and search along the sheltered hedgerows for leaf and blade.
To-night the rabbits will run almost like the hares, to and fro, hither
and thither.
In the thickest hawthorns the blackbirds and lesser feathered creatures
are roosting, preferring the hedgerow to the more open wood. Some of
the lesser birds have crept into the ivy around the elms, and which
crowns the tops of the withy pollards. Wrens and sparrows have gone to
the hayricks, roosting in little holes in the sides under the slightly
projecting thatch. They have taken refuge too in the nest-holes made in
the thatched eaves of the sheds: tits are there also; and sometimes two
or three of the latter are captured at once in such holes.
A dark line across the lower meadows marks the course of the brook; it
is dark because the snow falling on the water melted. Even now there is
a narrow stream unfrozen; though the banks against which it chafes are
hard, and will not take the impression of the moorhen’s foot. The
water-rats that in summertime played and fed along the margin among the
flags are rarely seen in winter. In walking in daylight by the brook
now their plunge into the water will not be heard, nor can they be seen
travelling at the bottom.
They lay up a store of food in a hole away from the stream, generally
choosing the banks or higher ground in the withy-beds—places that are
not often flooded. Their ordinary holes, which are half, and sometimes
quite, under water, will not do for winter; they would be frozen in
them, and perhaps their store of food would be spoiled; besides which
the floods cause the stream to rise above its banks, and they could not
exist under water for weeks together.
Still further down, where the wood ends in scattered bushes and
withy-beds, the level shore of the shallow mere succeeds. The once
soft, oozy ground is now firm; the rushes are frozen stiff, and the ice
for some distance out is darkened by the aquatic weeds frozen in it.
From here the wood, rising up the slope, comes into view at once—the
dark trees, the ash poles, the distant beeches, the white crest of the
hill—all still and calm under the moonlight. The level white plain of
ice behind stretches away, its real extent concealed by the islands of
withy and the dark pines along the distant shore; while elsewhere the
ice is not distinguishable from the almost equally level fields that
join it. Looking now more closely on the snow, the tracks of hares and
rabbits that have crossed and recrossed the ice are visible.
In passing close to the withy-beds to return to the wood some branches
have to be pushed aside and cause a slight noise. Immediately a crowd
of birds rise out of the withies, where they have been roosting, and
scatter into the night. They are redwings and thrushes; every withy-bed
is full of them. After wheeling about in the air they will presently
return—first one, then three or four, and finally the flock, to their
roosting-place.
It is easy now to walk through the wood without making a noise: there
is room to pass between the stoles of ash; and the dead sticks that
would have cracked under foot are covered with snow. But be careful how
you step; for in some places the snow has fallen upon a mass of leaves
filling a swampy hollow. Above there is a thin crust of snow, but under
the leaves the oozy ground is still soft.
Upon the dark pines the snow has lodged, making the boughs bend
downwards. Where the slope becomes a hill the ash stoles and nut-tree
bushes are far apart and thinner, so that there are wide white spaces
around them. Regaining now the top of the hill where the plain comes to
the verge of the wood, there is a clear view down across the ash poles
to the withies, the white mere, and the meadows below. Everywhere
silence, stillness, sleep.
In the high trees slumbering creatures; in the hedgerows, in the
bushes, and the withies birds with feathers puffed out, slumbering; in
the banks, under the very ground, dormant animals. A quiet cold that at
first does not seem cold because it is so quiet, but which gradually
seizes on and stills the sap of plants and the blood of living things.
A ruthless frost, still, subtle, and irresistible, that will slay the
bird on its perch and weaken the swift hare.
The most cruel of all things this snow and frost, because of the
torture of hunger which the birds must feel even in their sleep. But
how beautiful the round full moon, the brilliant light, the white
landscape, the graceful lines of the pine brought out by the snow, the
hills yonder, and the stars rising above them!
It was on just such a night as this that some years since a most
successful raid was made upon this wood by a band of poachers coming
from a distance. The pheasants had been kept later than usual to be
shot by a Christmas party, and perhaps this had caused a relaxation of
vigilance. The band came in a cart of some kind; the marks of the
wheels were found on the snow where it had been driven off the highway
and across a field to some ricks. There, no doubt, the horse and cart
were kept out of sight behind the ricks, while the men, who were
believed to have worn smock-frocks, entered the wood.
The bright moonlight made it easy to find the pheasants, and they were
potted in plenty. Finding that there was no opposition, the gang
crossed from the wood to some outlying plantations and continued their
work there. The keeper never heard a sound. He was an old man—a man who
had been on the estate all his life—and had come in late in the evening
after a long round. He sat by the fire of split logs and enjoyed the
warmth after the bitter cold and frost; and, as he himself confessed,
took an extra glass in consideration of the severity of the weather.
His wife was old and deaf. Neither of them heard the guns nor the dogs.
Those in the kennels close to the cottage, and very likely one or more
indoors, must have barked at the noise of the shooting. But if any dim
sense of the uproar did reach the keeper’s ear he put it down to the
moon, at which dogs will bay. As for his assistants, they had quietly
gone home, so soon as they felt sure that the keeper was housed for the
night. Long immunity from attack had bred over-confidence; the staff
also was too small for the extent of the place, and this had doubtless
become known. No one sleeps so soundly as an agricultural labourer; and
as the nearest hamlet was at some distance it is not surprising that
they did not wake.
In the early morning a fogger going to fodder his cattle came across a
pheasant lying dead on the path, the snow stained with its blood. He
picked it up, and put it under his smock-frock, and carried it to the
pen, where he hid it under some litter, intending to take it home. But
afterwards, as he crossed the fields towards the farm, he passed near
the wood and observed the tracks of many feet and a gap in the fence.
He looked through the gap and saw that the track went into the
preserves. On second thoughts he went back for the pheasant and took it
to his master.
The farmer, who was sitting down to table, quietly ate his breakfast,
and then strolled over to the keeper’s cottage with the bird. This was
the first intimation: the keeper could hardly believe it, till he
himself went down and followed the trail of foot-marks. There was not
the least difficulty in tracing the course of the poachers through the
wood; the feathers were lying about; the scorched paper (for they used
muzzle-loaders), broken boughs, and shot-marks were all too plain. But
by this time the gang were well away, and none were captured or
identified.
The extreme severity of the frost naturally caused people to stay
indoors, so that no one noticed the cart going through the village; nor
could the track of its wheels be discerned from others on the snow of
the highway beaten down firm. Even had the poachers been disturbed, it
is doubtful if so small a staff of keepers could have done anything to
stop them. As it was, they not only made a good haul—the largest made
for years in that locality—but quite spoiled the shooting.
There are no white figures passing through the peaceful wood to-night
and firing up into the trees. It is perfectly still. The broad moon
moves slow, and the bright rays light up tree and bush, so that it is
easy to see through, except where the brambles retain their leaves and
are fringed with the dead ferns.
The poaching of the present day is carried on with a few appliances
only. An old-fashioned poacher could employ a variety of “engines,” but
the modern has scarcely any choice. There was, for instance, a very
effective mode of setting a wire with a springe or bow. A stout stick
was thrust into the ground, and then bent over into an arch. When the
wire was thrown it instantly released the springe, which sprang up and
drew it fast round the neck of the hare or rabbit, whose fore feet were
lifted from the earth. Sometimes a growing sapling was bent down for
the bow if it chanced to stand conveniently near a run. The hare no
sooner put her head into the noose than she was suspended and
strangled.
I tried the springe several times for rabbits, and found it answer; but
the poacher cannot use it because it is so conspicuous. The stick
itself, rising above the grass, is visible at some distance, and when
thrown it holds the hare or rabbit up for any one to see that passes
by. With a wire set in the present manner the captured animal lies
extended, and often rolls into a furrow and is further hidden.
The springe was probably last employed by the mole-catchers. Their
wooden traps were in the shape of a small tunnel, with a wire in the
middle which, when the mole passed through, set free a bent stick. This
stick pulled the wire and hung the mole. Such mole-catchers’ bows or
springes used to be seen in every meadow, but are now superseded by the
iron trap.
Springes with horsehair nooses on the ground were also set for
woodcocks and for wild ducks. It is said that a springe of somewhat
similar construction was used for pheasants. Horsehair nooses are still
applied for capturing woodpeckers and the owls that spend the day in
hollow trees, being set round the hole by which they leave the tree. A
more delicate horsehair noose is sometimes set for finches and small
birds. I tried it for bullfinches, but did not succeed from lack of the
dexterity required. The modes of using bird-lime were numerous, and
many of them are in use for taking song-birds.
But the enclosure of open lands, the strict definition of footpaths,
closer cultivation, and the increased value of game have so checked the
poacher’s operations with nets that in many districts the net may be
said to be extinct. It is no longer necessary to bush the stubbles
immediately after reaping. Brambles are said to have been the best for
hindering the net, which frequently swept away an entire covey, old
birds and young together. Stubbles are now so short that no birds will
lie in them, and the net would not be successful there if it were
tried.
The net used to be so favourite an “engine” because partridges and
pheasants will run rather than fly. In the case of partridges the
poacher had first to ascertain the haunt of the covey, which he could
do by looking for where they roost at night: the spot is often worn
almost bare of grass and easily found. Or he could listen in the
evening for the calling of the birds as they run together. The net
being set, he walked very slowly down the wind towards the covey. It
could not be done too quietly or gently, because if one got up all the
rest would immediately take wing; for partridges act in concert. If he
took his time and let them run in front of him he secured the whole
number. That was the principle; but the nets were of many kinds: the
partridges were sometimes driven in by a dog. The partridges that
appear in the market on the morning of the 1st of September are said to
be netted, though probably by those who have a right to do so. These
birds by nature lend themselves to such tricks, being so timid. It is
said that if continually driven to and fro they will at last cower, and
can be taken by hand or knocked over with a stick.
The sight of a paper kite in the air makes them motionless till forced
to rise; and there was an old dodge of ringing a bell at night, which
so alarmed the covey that they remained still till the net was ready,
when a sudden flash of light drove them into it. Imagine a poacher
ringing a bell nowadays! Then, partridges were peculiarly liable to be
taken; now, perhaps, they escape better than any other kind of game.
Except with a gun the poacher can hardly touch them, and after the
coveys have been broken up it is not worth his while to risk a shot
very often. If only their eggs could be protected there should be
little difficulty with partridges.
Pheasants are more individual in their ways, and act less together; but
they have the same habit of running instead of flying, and if a poacher
did but dare he could take them with nets as easily as possible. They
form runs through the woods—just as fowls will wander day after day
down a hedge, till they have made quite a path. So that, having found
the run and knowing the position of the birds, the rest is simplicity
itself. The net being stretched, the pheasants were driven in. A cur
dog was sometimes sent round to disturb the birds. Being a cur, he did
not bark, for which reason a strain of cur is preferred to this day by
the mouchers who keep dogs. Now that the woods are regularly watched
such a plan has become impracticable. It might indeed be done once, but
surely not twice where competent keepers were about.
Nets were also used for hares and rabbits, which were driven in by a
dog; but, the scent of these animals being so good, it was necessary to
work in such a manner that the wind might not blow from the net,
meeting them as they approached it. Pheasants, as every one knows,
roost on trees, but often do not ascend very high; and, indeed, before
the leaves are off they are said to be sometimes taken by hand—sliding
it along the bough till the legs are grasped, just as you might fowls
perched at night on a rail across the beams of a shed.
The spot where they roost is easily found out, because of the peculiar
noise they make upon flying up; and with a little precaution the trees
may be approached without startling them. Years ago the poacher carried
a sulphur match and lit it under the tree, when the fumes, ascending,
stupefied the birds, which fell to the ground. The process strongly
resembled the way in which old-fashioned folk stifled their bees by
placing the hive at night, when the insects were still, over a piece of
brown paper dipped in molten brimstone and ignited. The apparently dead
bees were afterwards shaken out and buried; but upon moving the earth
with a spade some of them would crawl out, even after two or three
days.
Sulphur fumes were likewise used for compelling rabbits to bolt from
their buries without a ferret. I tried an experiment in a bury once
with a mixture the chief component of which was gunpowder, so managed
as to burn slowly and give a great smoke. The rabbits did, indeed, just
hop out and hop in again; but it is a most clumsy expedient, because
the fire must be lit on the windward side, and the rabbits will only
come out to leeward. The smoke hangs, and does not penetrate into half
the tunnels; or else it blows through quickly, when you must stop half
the holes with a spade. It is a wretched substitute for a ferret.
When cock-fighting was common the bellicose inclinations of the
cock-pheasants were sometimes excited to their destruction. A gamecock
was first armed with the sharp spur made from the best razors, and then
put down near where a pheasant-cock had been observed to crow. The
pheasant cock is so thoroughly game that he will not allow any rival
crowing in his locality, and the two quickly met in battle. Like a keen
poniard the game-cock’s spur either slew the pheasant outright or got
fixed in the pheasant’s feathers, when he was captured.
A pheasant, too, as he ran deeper into the wood upon an alarm,
occasionally found his neck in a noose suspended across his path. For
rabbiting, the lurcher was and is the dog of all others. He is as
cunning and wily in approaching his game as if he had a cross of feline
nature in his character. Other dogs trust to speed; but the lurcher
steals on his prey without a sound. He enters into the purpose of his
master, and if any one appears in sight remains quietly in the hedge
with the rabbit or leveret in his mouth till a sign bids him approach.
If half the stories told of the docility and intelligence of the
lurcher are true, the poacher needs no other help than one of these
dogs for ground game. But the dogs called lurchers nowadays are mostly
of degenerate and impure breed; still, even these are capable of a good
deal.
There is a way of fishing with rod and line, but without a bait. The
rod should be in one piece, or else a stout one—the line also very
strong and short, the hook of large size. When the fish is discovered
the hook is quietly dropped into the water and allowed to float, in
seeming, along, till close under it. The rod is then jerked up, and the
barb enters the body of the fish and drags it out.
This plan requires, of course, that the fish should be visible, and if
stationary is more easily practised; but it is also effective even
against small fish that swim together in large shoals, for if the hook
misses one it strikes another. The most fatal time for fish is when
they spawn: roach, jack, and trout alike are then within reach, and if
the poacher dares to visit the water he is certain of a haul.
Even in the present day and in the south a fawn is now and then stolen
from parks and forests where deer are kept. Being small, it is not much
more difficult to hide than a couple of hares; and once in the
carrier’s cart and at a little distance no one asks any questions. Such
game always finds a ready sale; and when a savoury dish is on the table
those who are about to eat it do not inquire whence it came any more
than the old folk did centuries ago. A nod and a wink are the best
sauce. As the keepers are allowed to sell a certain number of fawns (or
say they are), it is not possible for any one at a distance to know
whether the game was poached or not. An ordinary single-barrel
muzzle-loader of the commonest kind with a charge of common shot will
kill a fawn.
I once started to stalk a pheasant that was feeding in the corner of a
meadow. Beyond the meadow there was a cornfield which extended across
to a preserved wood. But the open stubble afforded no cover—any one
walking in it could be seen—so that the pheasant had to be got at from
one side only. It was necessary also that he should be shot dead
without fluttering of wings, the wood being so near.
The afternoon sun, shining in a cloudless sky—it was a still October
day—beat hot against the western side of the hedge as I noiselessly
walked beside it. In the aftermath, green but flowerless, a small flock
of sheep were feeding—one with a long briar clinging to his wool. They
moved slowly before me; a thing I wanted; for behind sheep almost any
game can be approached.
I have also frequently shot rabbits that were out feeding, by the aid
of a herd of cows. It does not seem to be so much the actual cover as
the scent of the animals; for a man of course can be seen over sheep,
and under the legs of cattle. But the breath and odour of sheep or cows
prevent the game from scenting him, and, what is equally effective, the
cattle, to which they are accustomed, throw them off their guard.
The cart-horses in the fields do not answer so well: if you try to use
one for stalking, unless he knows you he will sheer off and set up a
clumsy gallop, being afraid of capture and a return to work. But cows
will feed steadily in front, and a flock of sheep, very slowly driven,
move on with a gentle “tinkle, tinkle.” Wild creatures show no fear of
what they are accustomed to, and the use of which they understand.
If a solitary hurdle be set up in a meadow as a hiding-place from
behind which to shoot the rabbits of a burrow, not one will come out
within gun-shot that evening. They know-that it is something strange,
the use of which they do not understand and therefore avoid. When I
first began to shoot, the difficulty was to judge the distances, and to
know how far a rabbit was from a favourite hiding-place. I once
carefully dropped small green boughs, just broken off, at twenty,
thirty, and forty yards, measuring by paces. This was in the morning.
In the evening not a rabbit would come out anywhere near these boughs;
they were shy of them even when the leaves had withered and turned
brown; so that I took them away. Yet of the green boughs blown off by a
gale, or the dead grey branches that fall of their own weight, they
take no notice.
First, then, they must have heard me in their burrows pacing by;
secondly, they scented the boughs as having been handled, and connected
the two circumstances together; and, thirdly, though aware that the
boughs themselves were harmless, they felt that harm was intended. The
pheasant had been walking about in the corner where the hedges met, but
now he went in; still, as he entered the hedge in a quiet way, he did
not appear to be alarmed. The sheep, tired of being constantly driven
from their food, now sheered out from the hedge, and allowed me to go
by.
As I passed I gathered a few haws and ate them. The reason why birds do
not care much for berries before they are forced to take to them by
frost is because of the stone within, so that the food afforded by the
berries is really small. Yew-berries are an exception; they have a
stone, but the covering to it is sweet, succulent, and thick, and
dearly loved by thrushes. In the ditch the tall grasses, having escaped
the scythe, bowed low with the weight of their own awn-like seeds.
The corner was not far off now; and I waited awhile behind a large
hawthorn bush growing on the “shore” of the ditch, thinking that I
might see the pheasant on the mound, or that at least he would recover
confidence if he had previously heard anything. Inside the bush was a
nest already partly filled with fallen leaves, like a little basket.
A rabbit had been feeding on the other side, but now, suspicious, came
over the bank, and, seeing me, suddenly stopped and lifted himself up.
In that moment I could have shot him, being so near, without putting
the gun to the shoulder, by the sense of direction in the hands; the
next he dived into a burrow. Looking round the bush, I now saw the
pheasant in the hedge, that crossed at right angles in front; this was
fortunate, because through that hedge there was another meadow. It was
full of nut-tree bushes, very tall and thick at the top, but lower down
thin, as is usually the case when poles grow high. To fill the space a
fence had been made of stakes and bushes woven between them, and on
this the pheasant stood.
It was too far for a safe shot; in a minute he went down into the
meadow on the other side. I then crept on hands and knees towards the
nut-bushes: as I got nearer there was a slight rustle and a low hiss in
the grass, and I had to pause while a snake went by hastening for the
ditch. A few moments afterwards, being close to the hedge, I rose
partly up, and looked carefully over the fence between the hazel wands.
There was the pheasant not fifteen yards away, his back somewhat
towards me, and quietly questing about.
In lifting the gun I had to push aside a bough—the empty hoods, from
which a bunch of brown nuts had fallen, rested against the barrel as I
looked along it. I aimed at the head—knowing that it would mean instant
death, and would also avoid shattering the bird at so short a range;
besides which there would be fewer scattered feathers to collect and
thrust out of sight into a rabbit bury. A reason why people frequently
miss pheasants in cover-shooting, despite of their size, is because
they look at the body, the wings, and the tail. But if they looked only
at the head, and thought of that, very few would escape. My finger felt
the trigger, and the least increase of pressure would have been fatal;
but in the act I hesitated, dropped the barrel, and watched the
beautiful bird.
That watching so often stayed the shot that at last it grew to be a
habit: the mere simple pleasure of seeing birds and animals, when they
were quite unconscious that they were observed, being too great to be
spoilt by the discharge. After carefully getting a wire over a jack;
after waiting in a tree till a hare came along; after sitting in a
mound till the partridges began to run together to roost; in the end
the wire or gun remained unused. The same feeling has equally checked
my hand in legitimate shooting: time after time I have flushed
partridges without firing, and have let the hare bound over the furrow
free.
I have entered many woods just for the pleasure of creeping through the
brake and the thickets. Destruction in itself was not the motive; it
was an overpowering instinct for woods and fields. Yet woods and fields
lose half their interest without a gun—I like the power to shoot, even
though I may not use it. The very perfection of our modern guns is to
me one of their drawbacks: the use of them is so easy and so certain of
effect that it takes away the romance of sport.
There could be no greater pleasure to me than to wander with a
matchlock through one of the great forests or wild tracts that still
remain in England. A hare a day, a brace of partridges, or a wild duck
would be ample in the way of actual shooting. The weapon itself,
whether matchlock, wheel-lock, or even a cross-bow, would be a delight.
Some of the antique wheel-lock guns are really beautiful specimens of
design. The old powder-horns are often gems of workmanship—hunting
scenes cut out in ivory, and the minutest detail of hoof or antler
rendered with life-like accuracy. How pleasant these carvings feel to
the fingers! It is delightful to handle such weapons and such
implements.
The matchlocks, too, are inlaid or the stocks carved. There is
slaughter in every line of our modern guns—mechanical slaughter. But
were I offered participation in the bloodiest battue ever arranged, or
the freedom of an English forest or mountain tract, to go forth at any
time untrammelled by attendant, but only to shoot with matchlock,
wheel-lock, or cross-bow, my choice would be unhesitating.
There would be pleasure in winding up the lock with the spanner;
pleasure in adjusting the priming; or with the matchlock in lighting
the match. To wander out into the brake, to creep from tree to tree so
noiselessly that the woodpecker should not cease to tap—in that there
is joy. The consciousness that everything depends upon your own
personal skill, and that you have no second resource if that fails you,
gives the real zest to sport.
If the wheel did not knock a spark out quickly; if the priming had not
been kept dry or the match not properly blown, or the cross-bow set
exactly accurate, then the care of approach would be lost. You must
hold the gun steady, too, while the slow priming ignites the charge.
An imperfect weapon—yes; but the imperfect weapon would accord with the
great oaks, the beech trees full of knot-holes, the mysterious
thickets, the tall fern, the silence and the solitude. The chase would
become a real chase: not, as now, a foregone conclusion. And there
would be time for pondering and dreaming.
Let us be always out of doors among trees and grass, and rain and wind
and sun. There the breeze comes and strikes the cheek and sets it
aglow: the gale increases and the trees creak and roar, but it is only
a ruder music. A calm follows, the sun shines in the sky, and it is the
time to sit under an oak, leaning against the bark, while the birds
sing and the air is soft and sweet. By night the stars shine, and there
is no fathoming the dark spaces between those brilliant points, nor the
thoughts that come as it were between the fixed stars and landmarks of
the mind.
Or it is the morning on the hills, when hope is as wide as the world;
or it is the evening on the shore. A red sun sinks, and the foam-tipped
waves are crested with crimson; the booming surge breaks, and the spray
flies afar, sprinkling the face watching under the pale cliffs. Let us
get out of these indoor narrow modern days, whose twelve hours somehow
have become shortened, into the sunlight and the pure wind. A something
that the ancients called divine can be found and felt there still.
THE END