A MIDSUMMER NIGHT 81 



elms by the wayside into the morning twilight. 

 It is the restless cuckoo, already astir. She does 

 not call it is too early. Besides, she has grown 

 silent ; the purpose of her strange, feckless life here 

 is spent ; a fortnight more, and her voice will no 

 longer be heard in the land. The chorus of larks 

 grows louder in the growing light. Already the 

 southern slopes of London are in sight, shadowy 

 and indistinct in outline, yet with a clearness rarely 

 seen, and peculiar only to the smokeless summer 

 dawn. Away still on the horizon runs the inner 

 rim of the London basin, the line along which rise 

 the heights of Richmond, Wimbledon, Sydenham, 

 and Blackheath. Not so long ago, and its southern 

 limit was still a wooded solitude ; now the life of 

 London has flowed far over its crest to the south, 

 west, and east. 



The bats are still wheeling in the streets of Croy- 

 don ; a railway signalman swinging a red lamp crosses 

 the way in front, and passes homeward ; two men 

 carrying lanterns and searching the ground pass 

 down a yet unfinished side street. They are looking 

 for the water-valves ; this is the hour at which 

 they can try the water in the new-laid connections 

 with least fear of protest from the sleeping house- 

 holder. Through the deserted roadways and sleep- 

 ing squares the way mounts to the hill on which 

 the water-tower stands. No other footsteps have 

 broken the silence. Our janitor has kept his pro- 

 mise, and the key grates in the lock in a moment. 

 Up we go the many steps almost in the dark, it 

 seems, for it is still nearly an hour to sunrise 

 and then out into the open at the top. 



It is a strange world, dim and silent, which unrolls 

 6 



