the summer moon, which shines in so many a tale, was beaming over a broad extent of uneven country. some of its brightest rays were flung into a spring of water, where no traveller, toiling, as the writer has, up the hilly road beside which it gushes, ever failed to quench his thirst. the work of neat hands and considerate art was visible about this blessed fountain. an open cistern, hewn and hollowed out of solid stone, was placed above the waters, which filled it to the brim, but by some invisible outlet were conveyed away without dripping down its sides. though the basin had not room for another drop, and the continual gush of water made a tremor on the surface, there was a secret charm that forbade it to overflow. i remember, that when i had slaked my summer thirst, and sat panting by the cistern, it was my fanciful theory that nature could not afford to lavish so pure a liquid, as she does the waters of all meaner fountains.