TRAPPING GNOMES. 
When the harvest moon is large and the 
nights clear, I love to spend an evening hour or 
two under the great oak-trees on the shore of 
my lonely lake. The soft mists creep across 
the water, bats flit back and forth squeaking, 
the whippoorwills call to each other that the 
time for migration is near at hand, and some¬ 
times the voices of the barred owls wake weird 
echoes in the lake’s curves. Sitting motionless 
in the black shadow, I am unseen and unsus¬ 
pected by the night creatures round me. Many 
feet move upon the dry leaves, and the flutter¬ 
ing of wings disturbs the still air. Measuring 
the evening from sunset until ten o’clock, it 
seems a period of more activity than the day. 
Hours roll by in the September sunlight with 
scarce a sign of life near the lake, but the com¬ 
ing of twilight is a signal for awakening. High 
in the oaks the gray squirrels are busy with the 
acorns. In the stillness of the night an acorn 
falling against one and another bunch of stiff 
leaves, finally striking upon the ground, seems 
to make an unduly loud noise. The fine squeak 
