

THE EDGE OF NIGHT 61 



and the meadow is as central, as hospitable, and, 

 if animals communicate with one another, just as 

 full of neighborhood news as was grandfather's 

 roof-tree. 



Did I say none but the cattle seek its shade *? 

 Go over and watch. That old tree is no decrepit, 

 deserted shack of a house. There is no door-plate, 

 there is no christened letter-box outside the front 

 fence, because the birds and beasts do not adver- 

 tise their houses that way. But go over, say, to- 

 ward evening, and sit quietly down outside. You 

 will not wait long, for the doors will open that 

 you may enter enter into a home of the fields, 

 and, a little way at least, into a life of the fields, 

 for this old tree has a small dweller of some sort 

 the year round. 



If it is February or March you will be admit- 

 ted by my owls. They take possession late in 

 winter and occupy the tree, with some curious 

 fellow tenants, until early summer. I can count 

 upon these small screech-owls by February, 

 the forlorn month, the seasonless, hopeless, lifeless 

 stretch of the year, but for its owls, its thaws, its 

 lengthening days, its cackling pullets, its possi- 

 bility of swallows, and its being the year's end. 



