A MIDSUMMER NIGHT 75 



is still more than two hours to sunrise. The moon 

 has almost ceased to shine, but the planets burn 

 more brightly as the light wanes, and a deeper 

 hush seems to fall upon the darkening landscape. 

 Hark ! in the still night air at this altitude the ear 

 catches now for the first time a solemn undertone 

 of the night. It is like the subdued echo of the 

 surf, but from a shore so distant that the sound is 

 here only the gentlest sigh in the air ; the ear 

 strains after it when at times it seems to melt back 

 again into the silence. The ground here is the 

 watershed between two rivers, the northern Thames 

 and the eastern Medway . It has been raining heavily 

 during the past week ; every little rill is full, and 

 the river in the valley below is still in flood. It is 

 the faint sound of the plash and fall of many waters 

 which reaches here in the stillness. This is that 

 voice which, once heard at night on the open hills 

 or moors, is never forgotten ; that sound which, 

 more than any other audible to human ear, suggests 

 the infinite 



The sound of streams that swift or slow 

 Draw down Ionian hills, and sow 

 The dust of continents to be. 



The pathway through the fields runs close to 

 the hedge now. The scent of white clover comes 

 down the breeze. In front, where the ground rises 

 highest, the Southdown sheep lie huddled against 

 the sky-line. They have given an historic name to 

 a breed famous for its mutton ; yet even in such 

 descendants survive the instincts of long-forgotten 

 ancestors. It is the highest spot of the pasture 

 they have chosen to rest in, and they lie with noses 

 to the wind, waiting, they know not why, for an 



