November 13, 1850

Robert Louis Stevenson (November 13, 1850 to December 3, 1894) was a great writer, and his novels present vivid scenes that prove his talent and imagination. He liked cats, and wound up living on a south sea island at his end. But here we focus on a proverb,he uses in a story, though it may just be a metaphor. The scene is a cart ride in the early 19th century. Our characters have stopped for for a break, in a section devoted to the eating arrangements of such transport. The book in question is St. Ives: Being The Adventures of a French Prisoner in England (1897). St. Ives is a spy for France and in England; this part of the story describes his furtive travel.

[At this break in the journey]... our fatigue was too extreme for visionary terrors. The second or third, we alighted on a barren heath about midnight, built a fire to warm us under the shelter of some thorns, supped like beggars on bread and a piece of cold bacon, and slept like gipsies with our feet to the fire. In the meanwhile, King was gone with the cart, I know not where, to get a change of horses, and it was late in the dark morning when he returned and we were able to resume our journey. In the middle of another night, we came to a stop by an ancient, whitewashed cottage of two storeys; a privet hedge surrounded it; the frosty moon shone blankly on the upper windows; but through those of the kitchen the firelight was seen glinting on the roof and reflected from the dishes on the wall. Here, after much hammering on the door, King managed to arouse an old crone from the chimney-corner chair, where she had been dozing in the watch; and we were had in, and entertained with a dish of hot tea. This old lady was an aunt of Burchell Fenn's — and an unwilling partner in his dangerous trade. Though the house stood solitary, and the hour was an unlikely one for any passenger upon the road, King and she conversed in whispers only. There was something dismal, something of the sick-room, in this perpetual, guarded sibilation. The apprehensions of our hostess insensibly communicated themselves to every one present. We ate like mice in a cat's ear; if one of us jingled a teaspoon, all would start; and when the hour came to take the road again, we drew a long breath of relief, and climbed to our places in the covered cart with a positive sense of escape. The most of our meals, however, were taken boldly at hedgerow ale-houses, usually at untimely hours of the day, when the clients were in the field or the farm-yard at labour.....

A similar scene is present in a poem he wrote earlier for children, "The Moon,"  which starts

The Moon THE MOON has a face like the clock in the hall; She shines on thieves on the garden wall, On streets and fields and harbour quays, And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees. The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse, The howling dog by the door of the house, The bat that lies in bed at noon, All love to be out by the light of the moon.