EVERYDAY ADVENTURES 



whip-poor-wills. One hour and eleven minutes 

 from my office in time, thirty-seven miles in space, 

 but a whole life away in peace and happiness and rest, 

 I have a little cabin in the heart of the barrens. 

 There in spring I sleep swinging in a hammock above 

 a great bush of mountain-laurel, ghost-white against 

 the smoky water of the stream. 



Below me in the marsh, where the pitcher-plants 

 bloom among the sweet pepper and blueberry bushes, 

 is a pitch-pine sapling bent almost into a circle. 

 Sometimes my friends cut exploration paths through 

 the bush or, in the winter, search for firewood, but no 

 one is ever allowed to touch that bent tree. There 

 some spring night, as a little breeze, heavy with the 

 scent of white azalea and creamy magnolia blossoms, 

 sways me back and forth, from the bent tree showing 

 dimly in the moonlight through the tree-trunks, 

 the whip-poor-will perches himself, lengthwise al- 

 ways, and sings and sings. Through the dark rings 

 his hurried stressed song, with the accent heavy on 

 the first syllable. The singer is always afraid that 

 some one may stop him before he finishes, and he 

 hurries and hurries with a little click between the 

 triads. At exactly eight o'clock, and again at just 

 two in the morning, he sings there. Up in the moun- 

 tains, where we once found the whip-poor-will's two 

 lustrous eggs lying like great spotted pearls on a 

 naked bed of leaves, he sings at eight, at ten, and at 

 three. Some people dislike the song. To me the wild 

 lonely voice of the unseen singer pealing out in the 

 dark has a strange fascination. 



