CHAPTER XVII
MOONLIGHT AND MARCH MORNINGS
To be sure, March came blustering, but it blew
in out of a succession of moon-flooded nights,
soft and brilliant, in which the ineffable love of
the heavens for the earth was so great that the
humblest might know it. The moon did not rise
in distant eastern heavens beyond the limit of
human ken. In the pink afterglow of the sunset
it was born from the Indian River, a new golden
Venus rising from the silver foam of a sapphire
sea that save for the path of moon-silver was as
clear as the brooding truthful sky.
For nights the trade winds were lulled and sighed in across the savannas in little whispered words of peace, whispers that were like the touch of rose petals on the cheek, as warm as the breath of a sleeping child. It was as if the fond sky leaned upon the loving shoulder of the world and was content to dream there. In this nearness and intimacy, this warmth and peace, wee creatures of the tropic night woke and sang for very joy of living. The moonlit nights of the very
