The Music of the Marsh 



closes the marsh tliere is sliort time for pause l)e- 

 fore the singers of darkness hit tlieir voices. The 

 frogs begin with renewed energy. Before tlie The 

 moon silvers the water and blackens the shadows ^'^^^' 



•11' T • naders 



comes the whip-poor-wills cry. it is not unmu- 

 sical, but it com])rises peculiar notes; they are 

 enunciated so clearly, and with such insistence, and 

 mingled always with the mystery of the dark. Not 

 mystery because the moon looks on anything 

 different from the sun, but because we are in 

 darkness; and when we hear and can not see, 

 we dread. 



Near the same time the night jar lifts his 

 voice, and he is a veritable screamer. A\'hat a cry 

 he can utter! We shudder involuntarily. But 

 what of the mate he calls { Did you ever ])ause 

 to think that to her perhaps the cry means: 

 "Awake! Come, sail with me through the forest 

 and over the marsh! Let us search for food 

 and enjoy life!" Is there not more in that to 

 arouse sympathy than repulsion in the human 

 heart ? 



The maestro of all night musicians is the great 

 horned owl. The big hollow sycamores and the im- 

 penetrable thickets around the marsh are his birth- 

 right. His music echoes throughout the year and 

 belongs to his location as tlie "white mantle of win- 

 ter and the green of summer. It is not that his 

 cry is harsh or unmusical, but that coupled with 



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