CHAPTER III 



THE MOONLIGHT LECTURE 



It is one of those absolutely still, mild November 

 evenings that we sometimes get after a boisterous, 

 windy midday. A reason, perhaps, why those 

 who know this South Down country well love it 

 above all other lands is the infinite variety of 

 moods that one short day will often display. We 

 are thus reminded of those attractive people who 

 possess a gift of adapting themselves to all circum- 

 stances, who can be happy with the joyful, buoyant 

 with the hopeful, and yet retain a reserve of silence, 

 that peaceful power of still enjoyment which per- 

 haps is the greatest charm of all. 



To-night it is in this silent, most perfect mood 

 that the garden welcomes me. It means that for 

 some hours, probably until midnight, when the 

 tide, some six or eight miles away, is rising fast, 

 hardly a leaf will stir. Earlier in the evening, the 

 leaves of the willows and young poplar trees upon 

 the little terrace round my house were rustling 

 restlessly, for sharp gusts of wind shook their 

 branches. Now, however, they hold quite still, as 

 if they too were drinking in to the full the loveliness 

 of this calm moonlight night. The only sound that 

 at intervals echoes from across the valley is the 



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