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sorrow for mortality and all human, wistful belief in immortality. "Come to me," it pipes in tin-*tinnabulating richness out of the deepening dusk. "Good night; good night; all's well; good night." No sweeter music than taps ever rang from bugle or from throat of wood thrush when deepening twilight falls upon this white-tented corner of fame's eternal camping ground. The buttercups that stray lovingly among the graves of the pioneers give up their gold to the sky that sends its tears to dew their round eyes. All day the good gray earth and the brave blue sky have held memorial service, and as the last note of taps rings from the throat of the thrush deep in the sheltering wood the night takes up the service with wet eyes.
