THE GROOMING OF THE FARM 105 



ments, I need only murmur &quot;quince bushes&quot; 

 and discussion would die out. It made me 

 feel very gentle towards Jonathan, to be thus 

 armed against him. Gentle, but also cheerful. 



&quot;Jonathan,&quot; I said, &quot;it s no use standing 

 here. Come back to the log where I was sit 

 ting.&quot; 



He came, with heavy tread. We sat down, 

 and looked out over the twinkling swamp. 

 The hay had just been cut, and the air was 

 richly fragrant. The hush of night encom 

 passed us, yet the darkness was full of life. 

 Crickets chirruped steadily in the orchard 

 behind us. From a distant meadow the purr 

 ing whistle of the whip-poor-will sounded in 

 continuous cadence, like a monotonous and 

 gentle lullaby. The woods beyond the open 

 swamp, a shadowy blur against the sky, were 

 still, except for a sleepy note now and then 

 from some bird half -a wakened. Once a wood 

 thrush sang his daytime song all through, and 

 murmured part of it a second time, then sank 

 into silence. 



&quot;Jonathan,&quot; I said at last, &quot;the farm is 

 rather a good place to be.&quot; 



&quot;Not bad.&quot; 



