notes of tbe 



and every ripple, save those within arm's reach, was 

 fire-tipped. Torches innumerable, but no visible 

 torch-bearers. And now the weedy shores and 

 scattered trees came creeping into view. Timid, 

 I fancied, as if wanting to see and yet remain un- 

 seen, but the moonlight caught them all at last 

 and pushed them to the front. Now, as never 

 before, could I see the river by moonlight, and 

 my half-asleep companion was right, there were 

 noises on every side, below, and above me. Not 

 a single sound, save that of the ripples beating 

 against the boat each ripple rang some fairy 

 golden bell was peculiarly distinct, and in the 

 midnight air all were strange. Even the notes of 

 some familiar birds are changed by such sur- 

 roundings, as the cry of a catbird which enlarges 

 to the wail of some feline monster. The night- 

 song of the rose-breasted grosbeak, however, is 

 even more magnificent than the same utterance 

 by day. This bird is a poet that appreciates 

 moonlight, and is doubly inspired when the world 

 is wrapped in silence. Heard, as I have heard 

 it, when on a wide expanse of water, every note 

 is freed from its harsh elements, few though they 

 be, as it travels toward you, a spirit's voice rather 

 than one from any material source. And now 

 came the great surprise of the night and every 

 outing to be successful should have at least one 

 unexpected incident great schools of fish went 

 by the boat, and many a shining head with va- 

 57 



