About that time, the sharp stones, the planks, the upturned boxes
of Silverado, began to grow irksome to my body; I set out on that
hopeless, never-ending quest for a more comfortable posture; I
would be fevered and weary of the staring sun; and just then he
would begin courteously to withdraw his countenance, the shadows
lengthened, the aromatic airs awoke, and an indescribable but happy
change announced the coming of the night.
The hours of evening, when we were once curtained in the friendly
dark, sped lightly. Even as with the crickets, night brought to us
a certain spirit of rejoicing. It was good to taste the air; good
to mark the dawning of the stars, as they increased their
glittering company; good, too, to gather stones, and send them
crashing down the chute, a wave of light. It seemed, in some way,
the reward and the fulfilment of the day. So it is when men dwell
in the open air; it is one of the simple pleasures that we lose by
living cribbed and covered in a house, that, though the coming of
the day is still the most inspiriting, yet day's departure, also,
and the return of night refresh, renew, and quiet us; and in the
pastures of the dusk we stand, like cattle, exulting in the absence
of the load.
Our nights wore never cold, and they were always still, but for one
remarkable exception. Regularly, about nine o'clock, a warm wind
sprang up, and blew for ten minutes, or maybe a quarter of an hour,
right down the canyon, fanning it well out, airing it as a mother
airs the night nursery before the children sleep.
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