Into the North Window of my chamber glows the Pole Star with uncanny light. All through the long hellish hours of blackness it shines there. And in the autumn of the year, when the winds from the north curse and whine, and the red-leaved trees of the swamp mutter things to one another in the small hours of the morning under the horned waning moon. I sit by the casement and watch that star.
Down from the heights reels the glittering Cassiopeia as the hours wear on, while Charles Wain lumbers up from behind the vapour-soaked swamp trees that sway in the night wind. Just before dawn Arcturus winks ruddily from above the cemetery on the low hillock, still the Pole Star leers down from the same place in the black vault, winking hideously like an insane watching eye. Sometimes, when it is cloudy, I can sleep.
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