In
this part of the thicket the catbirds congregate, but over yonder the
brown thrashers are calling to each other. The "skirl" of the
nighthawk ceases; but away through the woods, down at the creek, the
whippoorwill begins her oft-repeated trinity of notes. A hoot owl
calls from a near-by tree. The pungent smoke of the wood-fire is
sweeter than incense. Venus hangs like a silver lamp in the northwest.
She, too, disappears, but to the east Mars--it is the time of his
opposition--shines in splendor straight down the old road, seemingly
brought very near by the telescopic effect of the dark trees on either
side. Sister stars look down in limpid beauty from a cloudless sky.
All sounds have ceased. A fortnight hence the air will be vibrant with
the calls of the katydids and the grasshoppers, but now the silence is
supreme. It is good for man sometimes to be alone in the silence of
the night--to pass out from the world of little things, temporary
affairs, conditional duties, into the larger life of nature. There may
be some feeling of chagrin at the thought how easily man passes out of
the world and how readily and quickly he is forgotten; but this is of
small moment compared with the sense of self reliance, of sturdy
independence, which belongs to the out-of-doors.
Pages:
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38