of silence. Deep within the shade I 

 seated myself on the stump of a vener- 

 able tree that for many years, through 

 sunshine and storm, in summer's heat 

 and winter's cold, had lifted its proud 

 head above its fellows, but had at last 

 succumbed to the will of man, and that 

 pathetic stump and pile of discarded 

 branches was all that remained of its 

 greatness. There I rested and waited. 

 As the shadows deepened the bird notes 

 became less constant. Though there did 

 not seem to be the loss of a single mem- 

 ber, yet certain of the singers became 

 more prominent as others were less of- 

 ten heard. Plainly to be heard were the 

 robins, while the voluble thrasher was 

 persistent with his medley as he sat in 

 the top of a crab apple tree, and the field 

 and vesper sparrows from their perches 

 in isolated trees outside of the wood re- 

 peated over and over again their pleas- 

 ing melody. A belated crow came 

 brushing past through the tree tops, and 

 perched on a limb of a tree near his mate 

 who was hovering their brood. 



But it grew dimmer there in the wood 

 each moment. With startling distinctness 

 the ovenbird uttered its exclamatory cry, 

 then flitted silently away through the 

 gloom to a new vantage ground and 

 there repeated its call. One by one the 

 voices of the day ceased or became in- 

 frequent. Occasionally a redstart or 

 indigo bunting uttered a few notes 

 as if disturbed, but these soon ceased 

 altogether and the voices of the day 

 were superseded by the voices of the 

 night. From the distant marsh came 

 the sound of croaking frogs subdued in 

 volume by the distance. There was a 

 quick rustling among the dead leaves 

 and a shrill whistle, as a chipmunk skir- 

 ried with elevated, jerking tail from log 

 to stump. Still, though darkness is rap- 

 idly settling over all the earth, the clear 

 call of **bob white" comes from across 

 the fields and a robin is intermittently 

 calling "cheer up," while the thrasher 



repeats only a part of his medley, as 

 though half asleep and the vireos and 

 warblers and grackles have become alto- 

 gether silent. Occasionally amid the 

 branches overhead could be heard 

 the fluttering of wings as some be- 

 lated bird flits past, seeking shelter 

 for the night. The melancholy cry 

 of the whippoorwill sounds from afar^ 

 then comes nearer until it wakes the 

 echoes in the woods. Then silence 

 falls over all the forest. The last 

 beam of light from the departing sun 

 faded, and to the silence added darkness. 

 Still I sat upon the stump and listened. 

 I have said that there was silence 

 through the forest, yet there were sounds 

 around and above. No breeze stirred 

 the branches of the trees, no song of bird 

 or cry of beast broke the stillness, and 

 who can say what were the sounds that 

 made the silence vocal? A branch would 

 suddenly stir, then lift itself from the 

 cramped position in which wind or rest- 

 ing bird had forced it in the day, as 

 though turning itself to an easier pos- 

 ture for the night. A branch of dry 

 leaves covering an expanding plant 

 down there in the rich mould, would 

 audibly rustle as the life beneath forced 

 its way upward. These were the voices 

 of the night, the mighty silent forces of 

 life in tree and shrub and plant. 



At such a time and in such a place, 

 man is a different being from the sordid 

 creature that a few hours before was a 

 part of the rushing, grasping world, 

 striving to outdo his fellows in the bat- 

 tle of life. Then and there he is a part 

 of that pure nature surrounding and en- 

 veloping him — helpless as are his fellow 

 creatures, protected as are his fellow 

 creatures by the protecting care of the 

 Father of all. It is well to sometimes re- 

 tire from contact with our kind and asso- 

 ciate with nature in its virgin forms and 

 there learn our dependence and the one- 

 ness of all created things. 



L. O. MOSHER. 



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