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A LONELY WANDERER 



There is a weird fascination in the full, round moon 

 when the moving dome of hurrying clouds gives the 

 silent orb the deceptive aspect of intrepid speed. 

 It seems to be driving through the crowding masses 

 of floating vapour that hurriedly disappear in the 

 uncertain light of the close horizon. It makes its 

 swift and luminous way, hiding a moment behind a 

 dense mass of impenetrable white, peering resolutely 

 through the more transparent fleeces of vapour, and 

 sailing out freely across the open spaces of clear 

 night sky. The illusion of a swiftly careering moon 

 in the great festooned dome seems as real as the 

 sensation of speed when forgetfully watching the 

 steady flow of a hurrying river. Such a night was 

 fixed in memory by a lofty wanderer. The passing 

 clouds were so fine and fleecy that the light of the 

 great white globe was undimmed. With the easy 

 persistence of open day it sought out even the 

 shadows and recesses, making all artificial illumina- 

 tions seem weak and helpless by contrast. Clouds, 

 too attenuated to unfold their shadows, moved 

 steadily from the north, assuming a circle of dainty 

 rainbow tint around the white globe that peered 



