In the valley at night there were only a few scattered lights of human habitation, and if clouds didn't intervene the stars had the sky to themselves. Since then I've hardly even seen them so clear, they're everywhere drowned out by the spreading of humanity and its hunger for light at all times.
It was easy to take some interest in astronomy then. Was it Klinger who had a telescope, with which the moons of Jupiter could be seen?
At any rate we could walk under the stars to Beech House and South Bend and go to bed with their distant blessing. The effect was somehow more friendly and reassuring than Asimov imagined in 'Nightfall':
Thirty thousand mighty suns shone down in a soul-searing splendour that was more frighteningly cold in its awful indifference than the bitter wind that now shivered across the world. The bright walls of the universe were shattered and their awful black fragments were falling down to crush and squeeze and obliterate men.