motes of tbe IFUgbt 



senses are at once alert. Danger from their night- 

 prowling enemies is the reason for this, and yet 

 they are really quite helpless if the night be dark. 

 Lightly as slumber rests upon them, many are 

 given to dreaming, and those that sing by day 

 repeat their songs at intervals after dark, but in a 

 drowsy, half-hearted way. This singing was a 

 very noticeable feature of a recent stroll over 

 weedy meadows to the creek-side. The last heron 

 had passed to the thicket where many were 

 nesting, unless they were going and coming all 

 night, and even the ghostly chat had quit mut- 

 tering, when suddenly a Carolina wren startled 

 the still night by a ringing song that usually is 

 heard at daybreak or later, and it was now 

 midnight. The crested tit took up the cry, and 

 sounded an alarm from his perch in a tall tulip 

 tree; then the rose-breasted grosbeaks sang as 

 they only can, and sparrows in the briers trilled 

 dreamily. 



There was no day-time vigor in all this, but a 

 drowsy languor that fitted the time if not the 

 place. And yet, for the moment, I forgot that it 

 was night. Hearing these dulled voices, my own 

 senses were made more alert than before. The 

 doubt that is so prominent when one rambles in 

 the dark turned to confidence, and I seemed fitted 

 for any activity. I looked about for owls and 

 listened for their hooting, but not one put in an 

 appearance. The meadow mice might have held 

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