54 SHARP EYES 



though I suspect he may turn out to be an old friend 

 who has been making sport of me all these years. The 

 little toy may be made to mimic a number of the frogs 

 and toads. 



But the early musicians are now forgotten. A new 

 singer has come upon the scene, and his mellow noc- 

 turne in the twilight marshes 

 brings a message unknown 

 to his predecessors. This is 

 no shrill peep that stirs your 

 blood and sets your ears 

 a-tingle, no bubbling rattle 



or vibrant croak that cries " qui vive" to your eager 

 senses, but a drowsy drool that brings your feet to loit- 

 ering in the deepening dusk, and whose distant music 

 from the swampy lowlands lulls you on your pillow. It 

 is to me the sweetest sound in nature, the faithful chos- 

 en voice of the twilight, one of the most characteristic 

 attributes of late spring, and yet, like the sprightly wel- 

 come of the hylodes which ushers in the vernal season, 

 it still remains unsung by our poets, or if occasionally 

 acknowledged the true singer never gets the credit. 



Who will immortalize in verse the pensive witchery, 

 " most musical, most melancholy," of this tremorous 

 song of the toad, for it is in truth the uncouth and ill- 

 favored toad that now swells his bagpipe in the marsh- 

 es and fills the night with music? It is one of the be- 

 neficences of nature that the twilight glamour throws a 

 veil of obscurity over the performer while it emphasizes 

 and consecrates its music. 



I have spoken of the toad's bagpipe. Those who 

 recall the dual tone of the national Highland instru- 

 ment, with its continuous drone and accessory varia- 



