street has died away.  It is marvellous how easily one recuperates in the open air.  Even the cold untires and refreshes.  Then, even if one lies awake, the night passes with extraordinary rapidity.  It is always a marvel to me how long the day seems by comparison with the night when I sleep out of doors.  A sleepless night in a house is an eternity, but it is only a brief interlude under the stars.  I believe the animal creation that sleeps in the field is so in harmony with nature and so unself-conscious that night does not seem more than a quarter of an hour and a little cloudy weather.  Perhaps the butterflies do not even realise that night endures; darkness comes—­they sleep; darkness flees—­they wake again.  I think they have no dreams.

VII

It is peculiar, the tramp’s feeling about night.  When the sun goes down he begins to have an awkward feeling, a sort of shame; he wants to hide himself, to put his head somewhere out of sight.  He finds his night place, and even begins to fall asleep as he arranges it.  He feels heavy, dull.  The thoughts that were bright and shapely by day become dark and ill-proportioned like shadows.  He tosses a while, and stares at the stars.  At last the stars stare at him; his eyes close; he sleeps.  Three hours pass—­it is always a critical time, three hours after sunset; many sleeping things stir at that time.  His thoughts are bright for a moment, but then fall heavy again.  He wonders at the moon, and the moon wonders.  She is hunting on a dark mountain side.

The next sleep is a long one, a deep one, and ghosts may pass over the sleeper, imps dance on his head, rats nibble at his provisions; he wakes not.  He is under a charm—­nought of evil can affect him, for he has prayed.  Encompassed with dangers, the tramp always prays “Our Father,” and that he may be kept for the one who loves him.  Prayers are strong out of doors at night, for they are made at heaven’s gate in the presence of the stars.

An hour before dawn a new awakening.  Oh dear, night not gone!  The tramp is vexed.  The moon has finished her hunting, and is going out of the night with her dark huntsmen; she passes through the gate.  Peerless hunter!

The sky is full of light, a sort of dull, paper-lantern light.  In an hour it will be morning.  The side on which I have been lying is sore.  I turn over and reflect joyfully that when next I wake it will be day.  Moths are flitting in the dawn twilight:  yes, in an hour it will be day.

Ah, ha, ha!  The sleeper yawns and looks up.  There is blue in the clouds, pale blue like that of a baby’s eyes.  A cart lumbers along the road, the first cart of the morning.  I reflect that if I remain where I am people may come and look at me.  Ten minutes hesitation, and then suddenly I make up my mind and rise.

I feel a miserable creature, a despicable sort of person, one who has lately been beaten, a beggar who has just been refused alms.  In the half-light of dawn it seems I scarcely have a right to exist.  Or I feel a sort of self-pity.  How often have I said as I gathered up my stiff limbs and damp belongings in the mist of the morning, “And the poor old tramp lifts himself and takes to the road once more, trudge, trudge, trudge—­a weary life!”