WILD LIFE ABOUT MY CABIN 



the shadows deepen and the stars begin to come out, 

 the whip-poor-will suddenly strikes up. What a rude 

 intrusion upon the serenity and harmony of the 

 hour! A cry without music, insistent, reiterated, 

 loud, penetrating, and yet the ear welcomes it also; 

 the night and the solitude are so vast that they can 

 stand it; and when, an hour later, as the night enters 

 into full possession, the bird comes and serenades 

 me under my window or upon my doorstep, my 

 heart warms toward it. Its cry is a love-call, and 

 there is something of the ardor and persistence 

 of love in it, and when the female responds, and 

 comes and hovers near, there is an interchange of 

 subdued, caressing tones between the two birds that 

 it is a delight to hear. During my first summer here 

 one bird used to strike up every night from a high 

 ledge of rocks in front of my door. At just such a 

 moment in the twilight he would begin, the first to 

 break the stillness. Then the others would follow, 

 till the solitude was vocal with their calls. They are 

 rarely heard later than ten o'clock. Then at day- 

 break they take up the tale again, whipping poor 

 Will till one pities him. One April morning between 

 three and four o'clock, hearing one strike up near 

 my window, I began counting its calls. My neigh- 

 bor had told me he had heard one call over two hun- 

 dred times without a break, which seemed to me a 

 big story. But I have a much bigger one to tell. 

 This bird actually laid upon the back of poor Will 



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