These reflected heavens are different heavens.  On a darker and more vacant field than that of the real skies, the shape of the Lyre or the Bear has an altogether new and noble solitude; and the waters play a painter’s part in setting their splendid subject free.  Two movements shake but do not scatter the still night:  the bright flashing of constellations in the deep Weir-pool, and the dark flashes of the vague bats flying.  The stars in the stream fluctuate with an alien motion.  Reversed, estranged, isolated, every shape of large stars escapes and returns, escapes and returns.  Fitful in the steady night, those constellations, so few, so whole, and so remote, have a suddenness of gleaming life.  You imagine that some unexampled gale might make them seem to shine with such a movement in the veritable sky; yet nothing but deep water, seeming still in its incessant flight and rebound, could really show such altered stars.  The flood lets a constellation fly, as Juliet’s “wanton” with a tethered bird, only to pluck it home again.  At moments some rhythmic flux of the water seems about to leave the darkly-set, widely-spaced Bear absolutely at large, to dismiss the great stars, and refuse to imitate the skies, and all the water is obscure; then one broken star returns, then fragments of another, and a third and a fourth flit back to their noble places, brilliantly vague, wonderfully visible, mobile, and unalterable.  There is nothing else at once so keen and so elusive.

The aspen poplar had been in captive flight all day, but with no such vanishings as these.  The dimmer constellations of the soft night are reserved by the skies.  Hardly is a secondary star seen by the large and vague eyes of the stream.  They are blind to the Pleiades.

There is a little kind of star that drowns itself by hundreds in the river Thames—­the many-rayed silver-white seed that makes journeys on all the winds up and down England and across it in the end of summer.  It is a most expert traveller, turning a little wheel a-tiptoe wherever the wind lets it rest, and speeding on those pretty points when it is not flying.  The streets of London are among its many highways, for it is fragile enough to go far in all sorts of weather.  But it gets disabled if a rough gust tumbles it on the water so that its finely-feathered feet are wet.  On gentle breezes it is able to cross dry-shod, walking the waters.

All unlike is this pilgrim star to the tethered constellations.  It is far adrift.  It goes singly to all the winds.  It offers thistle plants (or whatever is the flower that makes such delicate ashes) to the tops of many thousand hills.  Doubtless the farmer would rather have to meet it in battalions than in these invincible units astray.  But if the farmer owes it a lawful grudge, there is many a rigid riverside garden wherein it would be a great pleasure to sow the thistles of the nearest pasture.

POPULAR BURLESQUE