NATURE'S MEMORIAL DAY 195 



doubt, once you have learned the calls. Nearing 

 these and seeing the white marble of the newer 

 comers stretch far beyond the slate headstones, 

 over hill and dale, it is not difficult to believe these 

 indeed the tents of an army corps and to think I 

 hear in response to the bugle the marching tread 

 of feet that have been resting long. The tramp 

 of the boys in blue on Memorial Day, as they 

 march and countermarch, passing from station 

 to station, the ringing call of the bugle that sang 

 across Southern fields all through Grant's cam- 

 paign could not seem much more real. 



When the busy day is ended it is the wood 

 thrush that sings taps. The dropping sun re- 

 flected from polished white marble lights camp- 

 fires from tent to tent, fires that shall burn low 

 to glowworm embers presently, their smoke 

 curling up in night mists from the dewy ground. 

 It is then that the friendly forest seems to crowd 

 closer as if to surround the camp with a host of 

 faithful guards. Then out of its violet dusk rings 

 the call of the wood thrush, a call full of gentle 

 mystery, of faith and longing, at once so sad and 

 so sweetly hopeful that it seems to voice all human 



