from dusk to dawn. A bird in the wood's 

 edge echoes his fine, clear note. Soon a 

 dozen will be singing nor pause till the 

 sun arise. 



Listen, open-hearted, to their fair accord. 

 What king can command sucli fine harmony 

 as wells through these silent trees ? The 

 tricksy singers pour out for you every sweet 

 note of wood or field. Surely the nightin- 

 gale must hide her head before them, the 

 upward-soaring lark sink down from heaven 

 to listen amazed to this richer rendering of 

 his love-note to the sun. 



Now the singers call with the note of 

 doves. Now it is the oriole's song that 

 goes ringing through moon and dew. Now 

 a strain, clear as the swell of Elfland trum- 

 pets breaking, dropping, a rain of silver 

 notes like small, sweet bells jangled in time 

 and tune. Lay it carefully away in memory 

 it is the mocking-bird's own song. That 

 he borrows other notes is pure wantonness 

 as of him who having giant's strength must 

 use it like a giant. 



The May moon rides at quarter. Three 

 o' the clock and all about cocks crowing 

 loud and clear. The western heaven is all 

 one wide, blue splendor. Low in the dark- 

 ened east the world's rim faintly lightens. 



