18 THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



But there have been times when, like some belated 

 traveler, I have been forced to cross this wild night- 

 land of his ; and I have felt him pass so near at 

 times that he has stirred my hair, by the wind dare I 

 say ? of his mysterious wings. At other times I have 

 heard him. Often on the edge of night I have lis- 

 tened to his quavering, querulous cry from the elm- 

 tops below me by the meadow. But oftener I have 

 watched at the casement here in my castle wall. 



Away yonder on the borders of night, dim and 

 gloomy, looms his ancient keep. I wait. Soon on the 

 deepened dusk spread his soft wings, out over the 

 meadow he sails, up over my wooded height, over 

 my moat, to my turret tall, as silent and unseen as 

 the soul of a shadow, except he drift across the face 

 of the full round moon, or with his weird cry cause 

 the dreaming quiet to stir in its sleep and moan. 



Now let us go over again to the old tree, this time 

 in May. It will be curious enough, as the soft dusk 

 comes on, to see the round face of the owl in one 

 hole and, out of another hole in the broken limb 

 above, the flat, weazened face of a little tree-toad. 



Both creatures love the dusk; both have come 

 forth to their open doors to watch the darkening; 

 both will make off under the cover of the night 

 one for mice and frogs over the meadow, the other 

 for slugs and insects over the crooked, tangled limbs 

 o the apple tree. 



It is strange enough to see them together, but it 



