120 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



it flow winding streams that are level with the 

 treetops on the margin. Here the moon by night 

 is distilling and vatting mountain dew from 

 which all wild creatures may drink deep without 

 fear of deleterious effects. It is the cup that 

 cheers and does not inebriate. The waking rob- 

 ins tipple on it and sing the more joyously, nor 

 is there in their midday any of the moroseness of 

 reaction. 



Three hours later the moon had slipped down 

 from the zenith into cushions of velvety, violet 

 black, low in the western sky. Its bright white 

 glow was lost in part and it was haloed with a 

 yellow nimbus of its own fog distillation. Over 

 on the margin of the pines the little screech owl, 

 now full of field mice and having time to worry, 

 voiced his trouble about it in little sorrowful 

 whinnies. Down in the pasture a fox barked 

 distinctly and a coon answered the plaint of the 

 screech owl in a voice not unlike his. It always 

 seems to me that the night hunters of pasture 

 and woodland bewail the passing of such a night 

 as much as I do. The whippoor-will began to 

 voice his petulant wistfulness again. He had 

 been silent for hours, feasting I dare say on 

 myriad moths and unable to call with his mouth 



