drifts, drifts to the dreamers of earth and 

 straight they cry out for a joy that is half 

 pain. Heart of the spring-time, soul of the 

 summer, is in it. What wonder if they who 

 breathe it go momently to that undiscov- 

 ered land, where the days of our years are 

 made young. 



One o' the clock. The moon is "wester- 

 ing sharply. Croaking, shrilling, have died 

 away the whippoorwill calls but afar and 

 faint. This might be the enchanted island 

 with the princess asleep for a hundred years, 

 so still, so stirless, it lies all in the fair, 

 white night. A ghost might sure walk un- 

 challenged. But no, a cock crows cheerly. 

 If spirits there be abroad, they must troop 

 them home to the grave. Is that truly a 

 ghost drifting up from the eastward swale ? 

 A white, thin, vaporous swirl ; what well- 

 bred shade could ask a properer housing? 

 Now another upcurls yet another. Dawn 

 will find good store of mist lying low upon 

 the tree-tops to redden at his kiss. 



A sound wakes in the trees the mad- 

 dest, merriest, most trancing note. The 

 mocking-bird is singing to his new mate 

 the fulness of life and love the joy of nest- 

 ing-time. A little while, and he shall make 

 all the night vocal flood it with melody 



