It was a beauty of a moonlight night, that white
and clear and clean you could almost see to read
by it, like all of everything had been scoured as
bright as the bottom of a tin pan. And the
shadders was soft and thick and velvety and laid
kind of brownish-greeney on the grass. I flopped
down in the shadder of some lilac bushes and won-
dered which was Martha's window. I knowed she
would be in bed long ago, but-- Well, I was jest
plumb foolish that night, and I couldn't of kept
away fur any money. That moonlight had got
into my head, it seemed like, and made me drunk.
But I would rather be looney that-a-way than to
have as much sense as King Solomon and all his
adverbs. I was that looney that if I had knowed
any poetry I would of said it out loud, right up
toward that window. I never knowed why poetry
was made up before that night. But the only
poetry I could think of was about there was a man
named Furgeson that lived on Market Street, and
he had a one-eyed Thomas cat that couldn't well
be beat. Which it didn't seem to fit the case, so
I didn't say her.
The porch of that house was part covered with
vines, but they was kind of gaped apart at one
corner. As I laid there in the shadder of the bushes
I hearn a fluttering movement, light and gentle,
on that porch.
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