Moths flit, ghost-like, round the seductive light of
my lantern. The meadows, ever breathing freshness, are now saturated
with dew, and I feel the damp of the night air on my heated limbs.
A Cicada, a fellow-lodger in the house, attracts me by its domestic
chirp back into my bedroom, and is there my social companion, while,
in a happy dreaming state, I await the coming day, kept half awake by
the buzz of the mosquites, the kettle-drum croak of the bull-frog, or
the complaining cry of the goatsucker.
About five o'clock I again look out, and behold the morning twilight.
A beautiful even tone of grey, finely blended with a warmth-giving red,
now overspreads the sky. The zenith only still remains dark. The trees,
the forms of which become gradually distinct, are gently agitated by
the land wind, which blows from the east. The red morning light and
its reflexes play over the dome-topped caryocars, bertholetias, and
symphonias. The branches and foliage are in motion, and all the lately
slumbering dreamers are now awake, and bathe in the refreshing air
of the morning. Beetles fly, gnats buzz, and the varied voice of the
feathered race resounds from every bush; the apes scream as they clamber
into the thickets; the night moths, surprised by the approach of light,
swarm back in giddy confusion to the dark recesses of the forest; there
is life and motion in every path; the rats and all the gnawing tribe are
hastily retiring to their holes, and the cunning marten, disappointed of
his prey, steals from the farm-yard, leaving untouched the poultry, to
whom the watchful cock has just proclaimed the return of day.
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