and loneliness of the world. Just at Scotty's right
hand, from behind a screen of scented basswood, came a sudden
discordant sound, the rasping "meyow" of the cat-bird; a moment's
silence followed and then arose a burst of delirious, bubbling melody,
as though the naughty songster, hidden within his aromatic curtains,
were laughing impudently at having deceived his hearers into thinking
he was only a cat. A loon arose with a splash from the reedy shore of
an island opposite and sailed away through the amber air; his wild,
derisive laugh echoed back from the glimmering sunset bay where he had
joined his comrades. Far above, the "scree-ak, scree-ak" of the
night-hawks whirling in the heavens echoed away into the green depths;
up the long dark aisles came the sweet "hoo, hoo" of the owl, and the
clear ringing notes of the whitethroat "calling across the dusk." The
frogs, down by the whispering water's edge, joined their chorus to the
night music; and on every side, keeping at a respectful distance from
the smoke of the fire, the mosquitoes "all in a wailful choir" uttered
their little, thin, doleful tunes. And always, far up in the dark
pinetops, like bells in a cathedral tower, rang out the clear,
enchanting, metallic notes; the long liquid carol of the veery.

Scotty drew a great sigh of content; he was home again. The magic
spirit of the woods, with its sense of peace and freedom, enfolded his
very soul. Those things of earth, the sordid meannesses of his
everyday life, faded away; they were as far removed as that diamond
star he was watching twinkling on the sharp peak of a dark fir. He lay
on his back, his hands clasped beneath his head, and gazed up into the
tender blue of heaven until the night began to deepen. The crackling
embers of the fire slowly smouldered down, the chorus in the treetops
began to subside. Gradually a great stillness settled over the velvet
darkness of the woods, and still lying motionless and content he could
hear only the soft stir of a leaf or the occasional "hush, hush!" that
the waters and the shells whispered, as though they were telling each
other that the world was going to sleep.

Scotty forgot his bed in the shanty, a soft balsam limb made a fragrant
pillow, and mother earth was the best couch. His senses floated away.

He was at home, lying under the Silver Maple; the sound of Granny's
spinning-wheel came drowsily through the doorway. The pathway across
the swamp to Kir