As Evening Darkens. 63 



His is no welcome serenade ; no discouragement 

 will daunt him, no power can stop him. 



After having been kept awake half the night per- 

 haps by the monotonous chorus of these disturbers of 

 the peace, you sally forth in wrath, bent on avenging 

 your troubles in the blood of one of them at least. 

 You creep stealthily through the long, wet grass 

 towards the spot where a corncrake is calling ; the 

 sound suddenly changes its direction, and comes from 

 the right. You alter your course. Now it comes 

 from behind you. You turn angrily round, only to 

 hear it in the next field. Wet and miserable, you go 

 back to the house, while on all sides of you your 

 unseen enemies raise their voices in a malicious and 

 triumphant chant. 



The song of the nightingale is the sweetest of all 

 the sounds of night. 



He does not wait till nightfall. It is a faithful pic- 

 ture that the poet draws 



' A nightingale that all day long 

 Had cheered the village with his song.' 



But he has long been silent now, and if his voice is 

 heard at all it is only as a harsh and angry cry at the 

 approach of some intruder on his solitude. 



But of all night-wandering birds the most familiar 

 is the owl. Its large eyes with their wonderful 

 mechanism of bony rings for altering their focus are 

 specially adapted for seeing in the dusk. Its downy 



