Forest watching for
the first little star to twinkle high up in the sky. Peter felt at peace
with all the Great World, for it was the hour of peace, the hour of rest
for those who had been busy all through the shining day.

Most of Peter's feathered friends had settled themselves for the coming
night, the worries and cares of the day over and forgotten. All the
Great World seemed hushed. In the distance Sweetvoice the Vesper Sparrow
was pouring out his evening song, for it was the hour when he dearly
loves to sing. Far back in the Green Forest Whip-poor-will was calling
as if his very life depended on the number of times he could say, "Whip
poor Will," without taking a breath. From overhead came now and then the
sharp, rather harsh cry of Boomer the Nighthawk, as he hunted his supper
in the air.

For a time it seemed as if these were the only feathered friends still
awake, and Peter couldn't help thinking that those who went so early to
bed missed the most beautiful hour of the whole day. Then, from a tree
just back of him, there poured forth a song so clear, so sweet, so
wonderfully suited to that peaceful hour, that Peter held his breath
until it was finished. He knew that singer and loved him. It was Melody
the Wood Thrush.

When the song ended Peter hopped over to the tree from which it had
come. It was still light enough for him to see the sweet singer. He sat
on a branch near the top, his head thrown back and his soft, full throat
throbbing with the flute-like notes he was pouring forth. He was
a little smaller than Welcome Robin. His coat was a beautiful
reddish-brown, not quite so bright as that of Brownie the Thrasher.
Beneath he was white with large, black spots thickly dotting his
breast and sides. He was singing as if he were trying to put into those
beautiful notes all the joy of life. Listening to it Peter felt steal
over him a wonderful feeling of peace and pure happiness. Not for the
world would he have interrupted it.

The Black Shadows crept far across the Green Meadows and it became so
dusky in the Green Forest that Peter could barely make out the sweet
singer above his head. Still Melody sang on and the hush of eventide
grew deeper, as if all the Great World were holding its breath to
listen. It was not until several little stars had begun to twinkle high
up in the sky that Melody stopped singing and sought the safety of his
hidden perch for the night. Peter felt sure that somewhere near was a
n