shadow, and shadow spirit, till all the day's dead 

 live and move. The roads, fences, trees, and 

 buildings become new creatures ; landmarks, 

 distances, and places change ; new odors are on 

 the winds ; strange lights appear ; soft footsteps 

 pass and repass us ; and hidden voices whisper 

 everywhere. The brightest day is not more 

 awake ; at high noon we are not more alert. 



One of the commonest of these night sounds 

 is the cry of the whippoorwill. Prom the middle 

 of April to the end of September it rings along 

 the edge of the clearing ; but how seldom we 

 have seen the singer ! To most of us it is only 

 a disembodied voice. Night has put her spell 

 upon the whippoorwills and changed them from 

 birds into wandering shadows and voices. There 

 is something haunting in their call, a suggestion 

 of fear, as though the birds were in flight, pur- 

 sued by a shape in the gloom. It is the voice of 

 the lost — the voice of the night trying to find 

 its way back to the day. There is snap enough 

 in the call if you happen to be near the bird. 

 Usually the sound comes to us out of the dark- 

 ness and distance— the loneliest, ghostliest cry of 

 all the night. 



[68] 



