128 What Birds Have Done With Me 



further; his race was run. How long he lay 

 there, he never knew. He was roused out of the 

 sleep of exhaustion by a voice, a calm, steady, 

 deliberate voice, clearly unafraid of what was go- 

 ing to happen to the world, saying over and over 

 again: "Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will, Whip- 

 poor-will"; and it was a disembodied voice, bird, 

 animal, or human, he could not tell, but comfort- 

 ing as the hand of his mother stroking his per- 

 spiring head. He wanted to get closer and as 

 he approached, it retreated; he forgot everything 

 else, it was all swallowed up in the desire to get 

 closer to the wonderful comforter. Ahead, he sud- 

 denly saw a hole in the woods; they were coming 

 to a clearing and in a moment more he was in a 

 path that seemed familiar, and the next he knew 

 there was Adolph Buzze swinging down the path 

 toward him, singing a French song. When he 

 got hold of his hard, strong hands, he held on, 

 not saying very much, but just holding on. "Oh ! 

 bird come every night. Some joke about whip- 

 ping-Will; was no Will to lick. Oh! yes, about 

 comet that big joke, too. Mighty God, scare 

 foolish children with Mr. Longtail, then he say 

 Mr. Fire-eater, go chase yourself and he go, easy 

 5 nuf." 



Good men, through my adolescence, on revival 

 occasions were in the habit of trying to uncover 

 hell, an anti-climax after the big comet, and 



