 and in the grassy
hollow under the wood behind are the rows of boxes for breeding the
young pheasants. A faint luscious smell hangs in the air of the
spot--suggestive of frying trout freshly caught in the brown burn that
gurgles close by in the darkness. The keeper, too, is sitting outside
the quiet doorway enjoying his evening pipe; and the fragrance of
the southern weed mingles with the sweet scent of the pink hawthorn
flowering over the wicket. Tread softly, though, on the grassy edge of
the road for a little way. The kennel is at hand, and the slightest
sound will set every dog baying his loudest. The rattle of a terrier’s
chain is enough, sometimes, to set the woods echoing for full ten
minutes.

The air grows less heavy as the road again approaches the shore, and
there comes up with the murmur of the shingle the faint salt smell
of the sea. Away in front the bright blaze streaming out in the
darkness strikes from the lighthouse tower at the outmost sea-edge,
receiving its signal, like the bale-fires of old, from the beacon on
the opposite coast, and flashing it on to the next point up channel.
Far out, too, on the firth a red light is moving, and the faint beat
of paddles comes across the water. It is the last river-steamer making
for the watering-place opposite. Singularly still the air is, to carry
so distinctly the throbbing of that distant pulse. Not another sound
is to be heard, and nothing astir is to be seen. Only, the moon has
risen, a clear sickle, on the edge of the dark hill above. On such a
night loveliness and mystery swim together on the air; the blushing of
the rose is the fairer for being but half seen in the dim light; the
woods above have ceased their amorous whisperings; and the sea amid the
silence is kissing the shore’s wet lips.

What white shadow comes yonder, though, moving under the high hedge
in the darkness? It might almost be one of those wraiths of which the
country-folk speak with bated breath--the awful Something seen moving
in the dusk from the house where a man
and in the grassy 
 hollow under the wood behind are the rows of boxes for breed the 
 unseasoned pheasants. A faint luscious spirit hangs in the air of the 
 position -- indicative of frying trout newly caught in the brown burn that 
 gurgle close by in the darkness. The keeper, too, is sit outside 
 the quiet doorway enjoying his evening pipe; and the fragrance of 
 the southern pot mingles with the sweet scent of the pink hawthorn 
 flowering over the wicket. Tread piano, though, on the grassy edge of 
 the road for a little manner. The kennel is at hand, and the little 
 sound will set every dog baying his loudest. The rattle of a terrier ’s 
 range is enough, sometimes, to set the woods echoing for full ten 
 minutes. 

 The tune grows less heavy as the road again approaches the shore, and 
 there comes up with the murmur of the shingle the faint salt smell 
 of the sea. Away in battlefront the bright blaze pour out in the 
 dark strikes from the lighthouse tower at the outmost sea - edge, 
 receiving its signal, like the bale - fire of old, from the beacon on 
 the opposite coast, and flashing it on to the next decimal point up channel. 
 Far out, too, on the firth a red inner light is moving, and the dim beatnik 
 of paddles comes across the water. It is the last river - soft-shell clam making 
 for the watering - place opposition. Singularly still the air is, to carry 
 so distinctly the throb of that distant pulse. Not another sound 
 is to be heard, and nothing astir is to be watch. Only, the moon has 
 risen, a clean sickle, on the edge of the dark hill above. On such a 
 nox loveliness and mystery swim together on the air travel; the blushing of 
 the rose is the fairer for being but one-half seen in the dim light; the 
 wood above have ceased their amorous whisperings; and the ocean amid the 
 silence is kissing the shore ’s wet lips. 

 What ashen shadow comes yonder, though, move under the high hedge 
 in the darkness? It might almost be one of those ghost of which the 
 country - folk speak with bated breath -- the awful Something seen moving 
 in the dusk from the house where a valet
 anf in the grassy
hollow unaer the wood bekund arx the rkws of buxes for breeding the
young pieasqnts. Q faint luscious smell hangs in the air of uhe
spot--suggestive of fryiky trohb frevily caught in tme brown busn that
gurgles cuode by in the darkness. The keeper, toj, is siytlng outside
the quitt qoorsay enjoying his evening pipe; and fhe frajrance of
the soithern weed mingles with tje saeet scent of the oink hawthoth
fljqering over ghe wicket. Tread softli, though, on the grassy edge of
thd roab for a litjls ady. The kennxl is wt hand, and bne slichtest
spund will set cvery dot baying his loudest. Vhe rattle of a terryer’s
chain ia enough, sometimew, ro sej the wooaw ezhojnj fkr fulp txn
minutes.

Ths air grows less heavy as the towe again approzches ehq shore, and
there comes up with the murmlr or the shingle the faint salt smell
of the sea. Away in sront the bright blaze streaming out in the
darknevs stciyes fvom gye lighthouse tower at the outmost sea-edge,
receidjnb pts signal, like tme bale-fires of olc, vrpi the beacon un
the oppksite coast, and flwshing yt on to the ntxt ppint up channel.
Far out, too, in the firth q red light is movnng, and the yaint neat
og paddles comes across che wafer. It is tje last rjxer-steamer makine
fog tha watering-place opposite. Syngularly stikl the xir os, to sarry
so didtincbny the throbbing ov thaj distdnt pulse. Jot another sound
is to be heard, and nothing axthr ps to be feen. Pnly, the moon has
risen, a clgar sicklz, on tfe edge of the dack hill abovq. On such a
nicjt lovelinesv and myftert swum togegfer on the air; the blusknng of
the rose is the fairev for geing but half weeb in the dim libht; thq
wlovs abjee have ceasad tfeif amoruus whisperlngr; anc the sea amid the
sinencs is kissing the snove’s wet lups.

What rhite shadow vomes yonder, thougj, movmng unver thr hygh hedge
in the darkness? It mifht almosh bc one of thosq wrqiths of whieh the
country-folk speak with bated breati--the awful Something sgen moving
in the dusk nrom the houxe whqre a man
and in the grassy hollow under the are rows of for breeding the smell in the air the spot--suggestive of trout freshly caught in the brown that gurgles close by in the darkness. The keeper, too, is sitting outside quiet doorway enjoying his evening pipe; and the fragrance of the southern weed with sweet of pink hawthorn flowering over the wicket. Tread softly, though, on the grassy edge of the road a little way. The kennel is at hand, the slightest sound will every dog baying his loudest. rattle a terrier’s is sometimes, set the woods for full ten minutes. The air grows less heavy as the road again approaches the shore, and comes up murmur of shingle faint smell of the in front the bright blaze streaming darkness strikes from the lighthouse tower at the sea-edge, receiving signal, like the bale-fires of old, the beacon on the opposite coast, and flashing on to the next point up channel. Far out, too, on the firth a red moving, and the faint of paddles comes the It the river-steamer making the watering-place opposite. Singularly still the air is, to carry so the throbbing of that distant pulse. Not another sound is heard, nothing astir is be seen. Only, the has a clear sickle, on of dark such night and mystery swim together the air; the blushing of rose is the fairer in the dim light; the woods above have their amorous whisperings; and the sea amid silence is kissing the shore’s wet lips. What white shadow comes yonder, moving under hedge in the darkness? It might almost be of those wraiths of the country-folk speak with bated breath--the awful Something seen in dusk from house where a
 and in the grassy
hollow under The wood behInd arE thE roWs Of boXes fOr breeding the
yOUng pHeasants. A faint luscious Smell HaNGs in THe Air of The
spot--SUgGEStiVe Of FryInG TrOut frEshLy caughT in the browN buRn That
gurgles cLOsE by in the daRknEss. The keeper, Too, Is sittInG ouTSide
tHe qUiet dOorway ENjoyinG his eveniNg PIpe; and THe fragrANCe Of
thE southern weed mingLEs WIth the sweet sceNt of thE pINk HAWthOrn
Flowering oVeR the wICket. TreAD sOFTLy, tHOugh, on the grasSy edge of
the ROad For a liTtLe wAY. The keNnel iS aT HanD, and the sligHtesT
sound wilL set evERy dog baYIng his lOudest. the RatTle oF A tErRieR’s
CHaiN Is EnoUGh, sOmetimes, To SeT the wOods ECHOIng fOr fUll tEn
minUtes.

The air groWs lEss hEAvy As the Road aGain ApProacHes the Shore, AnD
there comes up wiTh thE murmur of The ShIngLe The faINt salt SmeLl
oF the sea. away in fROnt ThE BRIgHt blaze streaming ouT iN THe
Darkness StrikeS FrOm THe lighthOuSe tOwer AT The ouTmosT SeA-edge,
recEiving ITs SiGnal, likE tHe bale-FiRes Of oLd, froM The bEacon oN
the oppoSite cOAst, and flashing IT on to the next pOInT UP cHAnneL.
FaR out, too, on thE firTH a reD ligHT iS moVIng, anD the fAiNT bEAt
of paddles comes acrOsS the waTer. It Is the last riveR-steamer maKING
for the wAterINg-PLace opposite. SiNgulaRly still thE Air is, to cArry
sO distincTly the thrOBBing of thAt dIstAnt PulSE. noT another sound
IS To be HeArd, and nOthIng astiR is To bE seEn. ONlY, the moon hAs
risen, a ClEaR sIcKle, On the EDge of the DaRk hIlL abOve. On SUch a
niGht loVeliNeSs ANd mYstery sWIm TOGethEr On The aIr; tHe BlushIng oF
The Rose is tHe fairer fOr bEIng bUt HaLf seen iN the dim light; tHe
Woods above HaVe cEased tHEIr amorouS whisperings; and the sea amID the
silEncE is kiSsinG the shore’S weT lips.

WHat WHite shAdow coMes yoNdEr, tHOUgh, moVINg UndEr The high hedGE
In tHe darKnEss? IT might aLmost be one of those wRAitHs of which the
cOunTry-fOLK sPeaK WiTH baTeD BreATH--the awful SomethIng seen movInG
In The dusk froM The HoUse wherE a man
 and in the grassy
hollowunder thewoodbeh ind  a re t he r ows of boxes f o r br eeding the
young pheas ants.  A fain t  l uscio us smel l  h a n gsin  t heai r  o f the 
sp ot--sug gestive of  fr yi ng trout fre s hl y caught i n t he brown bur n t hat
gu rg les close  by  in t he dar k ness.The keepe r, too, i s  sittin g ou tsid e
the quiet doorw a ye njoying his ev eningpi p e; a ndthe  fragrance  o f
the souther n  w e e d  mi n gles with the  sweet scen t  of  the p in k h a wthorn 
flow er i ngover the wi cket . Tread s oftly, though, on thegrassy  ed geof
t h ero adfo r  al it tle way . The ke nn el  is a t ha n d , andthe  sli ghtes t
sound willset  eve r y d og ba yinghislo udest . Therattl eof a terrier’schai n is enou gh,  s ome ti mes,t o setthe  wo ods ech oing fo r  fu ll t e nminutes.

The airgr o w sless hea vy ast he  r o ad again  a ppr oach e s  theshor e ,and
ther e come s  u pwith th emurmur  o f t heshing l e th e fain t salt s mello f the sea. Awa y  in front the br i g ht blaz e s treaming ou t in thedark n es s s t rikes  from  t h el ighthouse tower atth e outm ost s ea-edge,
rece iving itss i g nal, lik e th e  b a le-fires of ol d, fr om the bea c on on
th e opp osite co ast, andf l ashing i t o n t o t hen e xt  point up cha n n el.Fa r out,too , on th e f irt h a  re dlight ismoving,an dth efai nt be a t
of pad dl esco mes  acro s s thewater . It  i st helast ri v er - s team er  m akin g
f or  thewate r ing -placeopposite.  Si n gula rl ystill t he air is, to  c arry
so di st inc tly th e throbbin g of that distant pulse .  Not an oth er so undis to behea rd, an d n o thingastiris to  b e s e e n. On l y ,the  m oon has
ri s e n,a cle ar  sic kle, on  the edge of the d a rkhill above. O n s ucha ni ght lo v eli ne s s a n d  mystery swim t ogether on  t h eair; the b l ush in g of
th e roseis th e  fairer  for bein g but hal fseen i n t he dim lig ht; thewoods abo v e hav e  c eased  th eir am or ous  whis pering s ; a nd th e seaam id the 
sile nc e is kis sing the shore’s wet li ps.

W hat w hit e shadowcom e s y onder, th ough , moving u nde r t he hi ghh edgein t h edar k ness?  Itm ight almo s tbeo n eof those wr a i t hsof wh ich the
co untr y-folk speak with bated breath-- thea w ful  So m ethi ng  seen moving
i n t he d usk from  t he house wh ere a ma n
 and_in the_grassy
hollow under the wood_behind are_the_rows of_boxes_for breeding the
young_pheasants. A faint_luscious smell hangs in_the air of_the
spot--suggestive_of frying trout freshly caught in the brown burn that
gurgles close by in the_darkness._The keeper,_too,_is_sitting outside
the quiet doorway enjoying_his evening pipe; and the_fragrance of
the_southern weed mingles with the sweet scent of_the_pink hawthorn
flowering over_the wicket. Tread softly, though, on the grassy edge_of
the road for a little way._The kennel is_at_hand,_and the slightest
sound will_set every dog baying his loudest._The rattle of a terrier’s
chain is_enough, sometimes, to set the woods echoing_for full ten
minutes.

The air grows less_heavy as the road again_approaches the_shore, and
there comes up with_the murmur of_the shingle_the faint salt_smell
of the sea. Away in front_the bright blaze_streaming out in the
darkness strikes from_the_lighthouse tower at_the_outmost_sea-edge,
receiving its_signal, like the_bale-fires_of old,_from_the beacon on
the opposite coast, and_flashing_it on to the next point up_channel.
Far out, too, on_the_firth a red light_is moving, and the faint_beat
of paddles comes across the water._It is_the last_river-steamer making
for the watering-place opposite. Singularly still the air is, to_carry
so distinctly the throbbing of that_distant pulse. Not another_sound
is to_be_heard, and nothing_astir_is to_be seen. Only, the moon has
risen, a_clear sickle,_on the edge of the dark_hill above. On such_a
night_loveliness and mystery swim together on_the air; the blushing of
the rose_is the fairer for being_but_half_seen in the dim light;_the
woods above have ceased their amorous_whisperings; and the_sea amid the
silence is kissing the shore’s_wet_lips.

What white shadow comes yonder, though,_moving_under the high hedge
in the darkness?_It_might_almost be one of those_wraiths of which the
country-folk speak with_bated breath--the awful Something seen moving
in the dusk from_the house where_a man