I had written thus far when it occurred to me that I had still my own name
to choose and that soon the whistle of the postman would be heard in the
street. I went out into the orchard to take counsel with the stars. The far
horizon was still stained wine-red with the last embers of the day;
northward over the shoulder of the hill the yellow moon was rising
full-orbed into the night sky and the firmament glittered with a thousand
lamps.

How near and familiar they seem to one in the solitude of the country! In
the town our vision is limited to the street. We see only the lights of the
pavement and hear only the rattle of the unceasing traffic. The stars seem
infinitely removed from our life.

But here they are like old neighbours for whom we never look in vain,
intimate though eternal, friendly and companionable though far off. There
is Orion coming over the hill, and there the many-jewelled Pleiades, and
across the great central dome of the sky the vast triangle formed by the
Pole Star, golden Arcturus (not now visible), and ice-blue Vega. But these
are not names for me. Better are those homely sounds that link the pageant
of night with the immemorial life of the fields. Arcturus is Alpha of the
Herdsman. Shall it be that?

And then my eye roves westward to where the Great Bear hangs head downwards
as if to devour the earth. Great Bear, Charles's Wain, the Plough, the
Dipper, the Chariot of David--with what fancies the human mind through all
the ages has played with that glorious constellation! Let my fancy play
with it too. There at the head of the Plough flames the great star that
points to the pole. I will hitch my little waggon to that sublime image. I
will be Alpha of the Plough.