i 9 6 LITERARY PILGRIMAGES 



sorrow for mortality and all human, wistful belief 

 in immortality. " Come to me," it pipes in tin- 

 tinnabulating richness out of the deepening dusk. 

 "Good night; good night; all's well; good 

 night." No sweeter music than taps ever rang 

 from bugle or from throat of wood thrush when 

 deepening twilight falls upon this white-tented 

 corner of fame's eternal camping ground. The 

 buttercups that stray lovingly among the graves 

 of the pioneers give up their gold to the sky that 

 sends its tears to dew their round eyes. All day 

 the good gray earth and the brave blue sky have 

 held memorial service, and as the last note of taps 

 rings from the throat of the thrush deep in the 

 sheltering wood the night takes up the service 

 with wet eyes. 



