Who would not celebrate these delicious cool nights, when little touches of freshness and fragrance fill the air, to make one dream of beds of thyme and oldfashioned gardens, scented with lavender and rosemary, and, oblivious of age, if you are old, carry you back to the days of childhood and youth? Mysteriously the moonbeams enter, gliding in with the odors of growing things, all the subtile influences the night liberates and sets afloat. The moonbeams steal through the curtains and quiver on the floor. Then softly, gently, you are lifted from your base in the reality of all familiar things in the room, the murmuring wind, the rustle of young leaves, the peeping of young birds uneasily in the nest, the flitter of an insect's wings against the pane, the piping of frogs. Something takes you up soundlessly and shoves your little bark into the unknown river of dreams.
The Borderland of Country Life
By Augusta Larned