IN A PALACE OF REEDS. 121 



go a shaft at an owl or a night heron. Read- 

 ing over some of the notes I made at the time 

 recalls the charmingly unique effect of certain 

 sounds heard at waking moments in those out- 

 door resting-hours : 



The leaping of bass, for instance, plash, 

 plash, at unequal intervals of time and distance, 

 breaking through the supreme quiet of mid- 

 night, comes to one's ears with a liquid, bub- 

 bling accompaniment, not at all like anything 

 else in the world. The mocking bird (Mimus 

 polyglottus) often starts from sleep in the scented 

 foliage of the sweet-gum to sing a tender med- 

 ley to the rising moon. At such time his 

 voice reflects all the richness and shadowy 

 dreamfulness of night. It blends into one's 

 sense of rest and becomes an element of en- 

 joyment after one has fallen again into 

 slumber. 



Frogs are night's buffoons. " Croak, croak, 

 croak," you hear one muttering, and with your 

 eyes yet unopened and the silence and still- 

 ness of sleep scarcely gone from you, you 

 wonder where he is sitting. On what green 

 tussock, with his big eyes jetting out and his 

 angular legs akimbo, does he squat ? Sud- 

 denly " Chug ! " You know how he leaped 

 up, spread out his limbs, turned down his head 

 and struck into the water like a shot. You 

 chuckle grimly to yourself, turn over in your 

 hammock, and all is forgotten. 



Then the screech-owl begins to whine in 

 its tremulous, querulous falsetto, snapping its 

 beak occasionally as if to remind the mice and 

 small birds of its murderous desires. The 

 big horned-owl laughs and hoots far away in 

 gloomy glens. The leaves rustle, the river 



