A NIGHT CALL 111 



In the grove behind the house the wood thrush 

 chants his song that speaks of twilight shades 

 in the darkening woods, while down in the dim 

 orchard a whip-poor-will repeats again and again 

 his odd three-syllabled cry, and from far above 

 in the dim blue his prototype, the night hawk, 

 drones his nasal whine, with rapid upbeat of his 

 wings, and now and then plunges downward like 

 a gray bolt, only to check his earthward rush with 

 suddenly outstretched wings, through which the 

 wind roars like distant thunder. 



As the darkness deepens, the fireflies twinkle fit- 

 fully in the meadows, bats begin their erratic flight, 

 and the droning buzz of the beetle is heard. The 

 stars appear, but there is no moon, and the glare 

 of electrics mar the soft darkness of the night. 



The white figures of strolling couples pass to 

 and fro, and the faint conversation of groups 

 of people gathered on the piazzas and enjoying 

 the delicious coolness of the evening, blends with 

 the voices of Nature and night. One by one the 

 lights in the houses disappear, the hum of con- 

 versation ceases, and the little town sleeps. 



At midnight we are awakened by the insistent 

 ringing of the telephone bell. 



"Confound the telephone! Why can't people 

 let it rest nights ? There, I guess they have given 

 it up now. No, there it goes again, 1-5, 1-5, 1-5 ; 

 some one is in trouble." 



