And then the figures in the blue field all day long; for it is not at
evening and night alone that they appear. What have I not seen march
across my window in the procession--a castle, a fan, a swan, a kerosene
can, the king of spades, a cream jug, troops of angels, in short,
anything that an idle imagination wants to conjure up. And when it
dresses for the evening, in what glorious costumes does it appear. But
all that is garish compared with the Sky upon which the night has
settled down. That is the sort of Sky to bring calmness and content.
The quiet lighting up of the stars, with no step ladders and no hurried
match scratching of the police; the ease with which the moon climbs
up her route, no puffing, no machinery clanking; the deepening of the
blue to better show the celestial sparks that glow on it--and the
knowledge that all this will go on without failure and without your
having to turn over in bed to work some lever to help it move, makes
the coming of night a comfort to the sick. Who thinks of the stars in
health? No one. We think of supper, of the theatre, of the band concert,
of the church, of the lecture--but who thinks of the stars they are
walking under. It is given to the sick to remember them, and in return
they remember the sick.
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