36 THE OUT- STATION ; OR, 



habitation, and that will, ten to one, speedily undo all 

 the work we have been attempting to accomplish in 

 such a masterly manner. 



Just won't we stop, my dear reader, now that we 

 are here ? not twelve months, but twelve hours, and 

 see if we cannot polish off some of the "unclean" 

 (not meaning the "great unwashed," but speaking 

 Israelitishly) that intrude their snouts here, eradicating 

 every germ of vegetation in the garden, and of charity 

 in the heart of its cultivator. 



The sun is setting bright and brilliantly ; every 

 fleecy cloud in the lately blue but now gray expanse 

 above us is tinged with a deep crimson glow, de- 

 creasing in lustre as the sun sinks further down, and 

 finally settling into a border as of burnished gold ; 

 till the Moon, getting jealous, pops its jolly round 

 face above the horizon, and before we have time to 

 say " What a glorious twilight !" the glare of day has 

 melted into the hallowed stillness and subdued beauty 

 of night and now is the hour for action. 



Without loss of time we proceed to pitch our 

 bivouac (as some victim of poetic inspiration has im- 

 mortalised it, but whether on a similar occasion or not 

 we will not vouch), 



By the moonlight, alone, 

 At the grove at the end of the vale. 



And as we are to spend the night, or the greater part 

 of it here, we will take care, you may depend on it, 



