sweat stood thick on his forehead as he advanced. Abner said it was a coon; his nerves told him it was two men talking in stealthy voices, probably talking, about him. He dropped to the ground as the great horned owl sounded its terrible cry above his head.
But as he steeled his courage and doggedly advanced he became conscious of a new note, a note of sweetness and love. It was the night flight song of the woodcock, only he gave credit to three birds for the music. First came the beautiful twitter as the bird rose in huge spirals into the evening sky; then in descending flowed the pure strains of a canary, quickly followed by a slightly nasal, clarionet-like “b-z-z.”
He forgot the possible o-hoo of the bear and the hoot-owl’s similar call. The barking of a fox passed unnoted and the trilling, booming chorus near at hand was unheard; for now the beautiful night sounds were flooding him with a wonderful melody and the harsher notes were as if they never had been. Out somewhere in the darkness the O1d Ben Peabody bird, or white-throated sparrow, was vying with the Phoebe bird, and waves of music rippled across the lake and smothered the bog in harmony.
But the sweetest of all was the good-night song of the hermit thrush. It came in a lull,
