"Yes," said Gerald; "it is quite the last thing in moons, not the ordinary article at all. We don't have ordinary moons on this pond. Who made that highly intellectual remark?"
"It was I," said Bell, laughing; "and I maintain, Jerry, that this moon has been a very long, and a very—well, a very splendid one. Just think! not a single cloudy evening till this one; and now it clears off in time to give us our moonlight hour before bed-time."
"The harvest moon is always long," said Mr. Merryweather. "Bell is perfectly right, Jerry."
"Strike home!" said Gerald, baring his breast with a dramatic gesture. "Strike home!
"'There's no more moonlight for poor Uncle J.,
For he's gone whar de snubbed niggers go.'"
"I was just going to propose singing," said his mother; "but before we begin, suppose we do honor to this good moon, that has treated us so well. Let every one give a quotation in her honor. I will begin:
"'That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn.'
Shelley. I am a cloud, be it understood!"
"I should hardly have guessed it," said Mr. Merryweather. "My turn? I'll go back to Milton:
"'Now glowed the firmament
With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.'"