Boys -- Juvenile fiction; England -- Juvenile fiction
Up, too, through the little oak came Aldebaran the red Bull’s-Eye, the
bent rod of Aries, and the cluster of the Pleiades. The Pleiades he
loved most, for they were the first constellation he learned to know.
The flickering Pleiades, the star-dusted spot in Cancer, and Leo, came
in succession. Antares, the harvest-star, scarcely cleared the great
oak southwards in summer. He got them all from a movable planisphere,
the very best star-maps ever made, proceeding step by step, drawing
imaginary lines from one to the other, as through the Pointers to the
Pole, and so knew the designs on our northern dome.
He transferred them from the map to the trees. The north group of elms,
the north-east group, the east oak, the south-east elms, the southern
great oak, the westward ashes, the orchard itself north-west,--through
these like a zodiac the stars moved, all east to west, except the
enchanted circle about the Pole. For the Bear and the Lesser Bear
sometimes seemed to move from west to east when they were returning,
swinging under to what would have been their place of rising.
Fixing them thus by night, he knew where many were by day; the Pole Star
was always over the north elms--when the starlings stayed and whistled
there before they flew to the housetop, when the rooks called there
before the sun set on their way home to the jungle, when the fieldfares
in the gloomy winter noon perched up there. The Pole Star was always
over the elms.
In the summer mornings the sun rose north of east, between the second
group of elms and the little oak--so far to the north that he came up
over the vale instead of the Downs. The morning beams then lit up the
northern or outer side of the garden wall, and fell aslant through the
narrow kitchen window, under the beam of the ceiling. In the evening
the sun set again northwards of the orchard, between it and the north
elms, having come round towards the place of rising, and shining again
on the outside of the garden wall, so that there seemed but a few miles
between. He did not sink, but only dipped, and the dawn that travelled
above him indicated his place, moving between the north and north-east
elms, and overcoming the night by the little oak. The sun did not rise
and sink; he travelled round an immense circle.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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