ers is such a broad full moon shining, and what
varied scenes it throws into flickering light and shadow--the very
thought being a part of the permitted madness of the time! Think of that
strange variety for a moment. Far out on the ocean tired sailors throw
themselves under the lee of the bulwarks and gaze up into its face,
while the light plays fantastic tricks among the masts and cordage. Out
of pleasant groves in the country light-robed figures are flitting, and
under that marvellous sheen words are spoken that would long have been
frightened back in the brighter glare of day--words that may make the
happiness or misery of a life-time. Ringing laughter breaks from merry
groups that glance in and out under the shade-trees and the vine-arbors
that surround stately old mansions in the valleys of wheat and corn.
Rough shouts and loud peals of laughter break from the rough throats of
the raccoon and opossum hunters in the wild back-woods. A broken-hearted
woman sits at her chamber-window and gazes out into the weird
atmosphere, thinking of falsehood and sorrow and the inconstancy of one
year. Half in the sheen and half in the shadow lies a little grave, its
light and shade fit type of the love and grief of two who sit on a
vine-covered porch and think of the day when they buried the dear little
sleeper. In the dark passes of the Apennines lurks a bandit, poniard in
hand, ready to spring on the unwary traveller as he emerges from the
shadow. On the gardens and jalousies of fair Granada falls the silver
beam, and guitars tinkle and white arms wave in recognition. Under the
gloom of the palazzo of St. Mark, at Venice, a gondola is shooting,
while the boatman hums a drowsy air and the lover anxiously watches for
the waving of the white scarf of his mistress. Cascades leap down the
mountain gorges, unheard of mortal ear and unseen by mortal eye, but
scattering their diamond drops in air as a full libation to the glory of
night. Far away at sea, on a drifting raft, a sailor eats his last
biscuit and smiles sorrowfully back to the placid face that will look
down next night upon his corpse!

All which may have very little to do with this story, and yet it may be
fully warranted by the occasion. And at least it is justifiable to say
that the full of the moon may have made Joe Harris madder than usual and
readier than ever to indulge in frolics of the most reprehensible
character. What we began to indicate, especially, was that no