90 The Pond-Meadow. 



seemed every moment to be falling upon me. Each car 

 hummed a different tune, dependent upon the relative 

 looseness of its bolts, and sometimes a box would 

 blaze, and make the passage of the train in the dark, even 

 more impressive and weird. 



As soon as it was gone the whippoorwills would call 

 again among the thick growth by the track, and often they 

 used the whip more lavishly than a Russian tax collector, 

 and chastised poor William from eighty to a hundied 

 times. But as the night progressed, and after the first 

 outburst of their dark and sombre soul was o'er, they sang 

 less often, and uttered the notes fewer times in succession. 

 They have also a second call that I have heard particularly 

 in June and July, and which is less loud than the whip- 

 poorwills and resembles took-took-took. If you are not close 

 by, it is inaudible, and it probably is only a part of their 

 nearer conversation. 



The whippoorwills add depth to the woods, their 

 voices are inseparable from the mist and dusk of night. 

 But even after they have commenced, the evening bell of 

 the wood-thrush may be heard as he tolls it solemnly in 

 the woods. The catbirds fly out in the dusk to the few 

 stunted trees that grow partly in the meadow grass, and 

 there is a blending of day and night songs — a space in 

 time, that reminds you of the material shore, where the 

 land and the sea do meet. 



At the end of the calm summer days, when all nature 

 seemed so peaceful, the trestle was an especially fitting 

 place to spend the evening. The sun set plainly in view 

 often aflame, and the wide expanse of sky was tinted a 



