UPON A DAY 211 



High up among the fleecy clouds the young moon 

 rides — a silver gondola. Low in the east, just 

 topping a line of elms, stretches a long black cloud, 

 shaped like some dragon of the prime. Glassily 

 smooth flows the river, excepting where the breeze 

 has caught it, and turned it into silver light. 



And this tent-dweller has nothing to do all day. 

 Think what it means. A whole long day to be idle 

 in ! Never mind the grammar. Grammar was made 

 for those who have to work : for there are persons 

 who are obliged to work. There are some poor 

 things, who, even on this very day, and when the sun 

 is at its hottest, and Throgmorton Street is for all the 

 world like the furnace-rooms of Woolwich Arsenal, 

 will be swarming like blackbeetles out of all the 

 cracks in that stone-built oven, happy in the know- 

 ledge, or delusion, that they see their way to gold. 



But our tent-dweller has little time to spare for 

 thoughts on such sad themes. In a very few minutes 

 now dawn — the half-light — will be over : day- — the 

 sunlight — will be here. It lasts, this border-time, but 

 some brief half-hour; but that half-hour is full of 

 interest, for it closes in the little hidden dramas 

 of the night. The tent-dweller is setting out; let 

 us go too. We must not go with him, because 



i.r\ i*rfu^. 



