It was, as Stevenson would say, "a wonderful night of stars," and
the air was full of their soft, quivering light, for the moon was
late and had not risen as yet. As I stepped from the inn door,
somebody in the tap-room struck up "Tom Bowling" in a rough but not
unmusical voice; and the plaintive melody seemed somehow to become
part of the night.
Truly, my feet trod a path of "faerie," carpeted with soft mosses,
a path winding along beside a river of shadows on whose dark tide
stars were floating. I walked slowly, breathing the fragrance of
the night and watching the great, silver moon creeping slowly up
the spangled sky. So I presently came to the "blasted oak." The
hole in the trunk needed little searching for. I remembered it
well enough, and thrusting in my hand, drew out a folded paper.
Holding this close to my eyes, I managed with no little difficulty
to decipher this message:
Don't go unkel dick bekors Auntie lisbeth wants you and i want you
to. I heard her say so to herself in the libree and she was crying
to, and didn't see me there but i was.
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