A NORTHERN NIGHTINGALE 



black at the orchard's edge. Those of us 

 who had heard the mocking-bird in Missis- 

 sippi forests and Floridian hammocks, and 

 the hermit-thrushes on eastern hills, decided 

 that the singing of this cat-bird surpassed in 

 sweetness both northern and southern wood- 

 vocalists. After all, is not moonlight the time 

 for music? And the song of this northern 

 nightingale seemed to us the poetry of bird- 

 music, the lyric voicing of winds and waters 

 trembling up into the moonlight, and softened 

 and saddened by the night. 



We were certainly an appreciative audi- 

 ence. Whatever the boys were doing, 

 whether playing cards, oiling up reels, wind- 

 ing new lines, or telling fish-stories, the word 

 that the cat-bird had begun to sing was the 

 cue for an adjournment to the side porch. It 

 was very still out there. The moon at that 

 time of the night would be rolling high and 

 free from trailing clouds. The bird seemed 

 to prefer those nights when only occasional 

 gusts of wind stirred the apple-trees, the cot- 

 ton-woods, and the tufted cedar. There was 

 no other house for miles and the loneliness 

 was emphasized by the near-by presence of 

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