The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country has diffuseda degree of taste and elegance in rural economy that descends to the lowest class.The very laborer，with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground，attends to their embellishment.The trim hedge，the grass-plot before the door，the little flower-bed bordered with snug box，the woodbine trained up against the wall，and hanging its blossoms about the lattice，the pot of flowers in the window，the holly，providently planted about the house，to cheat winter of its dreariness，and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside：all these bespeak the influence of taste，flowing down from high sources，and pervading the lowest levels of the public mind.If ever Love，as poets sing，delights to visit a cottage，it must be the cottage of an English peasant.
There is a hill near my home that I often climb at night.The noise of the city is a far-off murmur.In the hush of dark I share the cheerfulness of crickets and the confidence of owls.But it is the drama of the moonrise that I come to see.For that restores in me a quiet and clarity that the city spends too freely.
From this hill I have watched many moons rise.Each one had its own mood.There have been broad，confident harvest moons in autumn;shy，misty moons in spring;lonely，winter moons rising into the utter silence of an ink-black sky and smoke-smudged orange moons over the dry fields of summer.Each，like fine music，excited my heart and then calmed my soul.
Moon gazing is an ancient art.To prehistoric hunters the moon overhead was as unerring as a heartbeat.They knew that every 29 days it became full-bellied and brilliant，then sickened and died，and then was reborn.They knew the waxing moon appeared larger and higher overhead after each succeeding sunset.Theyknew the waning moon rose later each night until it vanished in the sunrise.To have understood the moon’s patterns from experience must have been a profound thing.