248 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



voice, was it not ? Yes ; faint, tremulous, 

 sweet, a mere breath, the falling, quavering 

 strain again reaches my ear. The bird is 

 somewhere beyond the brook. I wonder 

 how far. Well up on the wooded hillside, 

 I think it likely. I put my hands behind 

 my ears and hearken. Again and again I 

 hear it ; true music ! music and poetry in 

 one; the voice of the night. But look! 

 What is that dark object just before me on 

 a low branch not two rods away ? There is 

 no light with which to be sure of its out- 

 lines ; a tuft of dead leaves, perhaps ; but it 

 is of a screech owl's size. Another phrase. 

 Yes, it comes from that spot, or I am tricked. 

 And now the bird moves, and the next in- 

 stant takes wing. But he goes only a few 

 feet, and alights even nearer to me than 

 before. How soft his voice is ! Almost 

 as soft as his flight. How different from 

 the woodcock's panting, breathless whistle ! 

 Though I can see him, and could almost 

 touch him, the tremulous measure might 

 still be coming from the depths of the wood. 

 I listen with all my ears, till an approaching 

 carriage turns a corner in the road below. 



