174 THE MEMOEABLE. 



remained sitting at the open window of my bedroom, long 

 after the household had retired to bed. It was a lovely 

 night ; a thunder-storm had just passed, which had cleared 

 and cooled the air ; the moon was in the west, and the 

 stars were twinkling ; the rain-drops still hung upon the 

 trees, sparkling as the beams fell on them ; the large 

 white blossoms of a catalpa tree were conspicuous just 

 under my window, and gushes of rich fragrance came up 

 from a clematis which thickly covered the trellis-work of 

 the ladies' arbour. The solemn forest, with its serried 

 ranks of primeval trees, girdled-in the little garden, and 

 lay dark and vague beyond. It was too early for the 

 noisy cicadse that in the later summer make the woods 

 ring with their joertinacious crinking, and not a sound 

 broke the profound silence. Every element was poetry, 

 and my mind was in a state of quiet but high enjoyment. 

 It wanted but a few minutes of midnight, when suddenly 

 the clear and distinct voice of the chuck- will's widow rose 

 up from a pomegranate tree in the garden below the win- 

 dow where I was sitting, and only a few yards from me. 

 It was exactly as if a human being had spoken the words, 

 " chuck — widowwidow." I had not been thinking of this 

 bird, but of course I recognised it in a moment, and a 

 gush of delight and surprise went through me. I scarcely 

 dared to breathe, lest any sound should alarm and drive it 

 away, and my ears were strained to catch every intonation 

 uttered. It continued to repeat its singular call at inter- 

 vals of a few seconds for about half an hour, when another 

 from a Httle distance answered, and the two pursued their 



