The first peripheral impression Mason had of it was of course a star-gazer’s,— thinking, Why, the Moon isn’t suppos’d to be out, nor full, nor quite this bright shade of yellow, nor for that matter to be growing in size this way,— about then smoaking belatedly where he was, and what was about to happen. “Ahr! Mercy!” He threw his arms in front of his Face and succumb’d before the cylindrickal Onslaught, with a peculiar Horror at having been singl’d out for Misadventure . . . The Victim of a Cheese malevolent,
