"A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
Breaks the serene of heaven:
In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark-blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads;
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night?"
"It most have been on just such another night as this, Frank, that
Southey penned these lines," I began.
"How about the dewy freshness?" said my wife, who is usually more
practical than poetic. "Don't you think, dear, that Ida had better go
in?"
"Oh! no, auntie," cried Ida; "I must stay and hear the story. It isn't
nine o'clock."
"No," Frank remarked, "barely nine o'clock, and yet the stars are all
out; why, up in the north of Scotland people at this season of the year
can see to read all night."
"How delightful!" cried Ida.
The nodding lilacs and starry syringas were mingling their perfume in
the evening air.
"Listen," said my wife; "yonder, close by us in the Portugal laurel, is
the nightingale."
"Yes," I replied, "but to-morrow morning will find the bird just a
trifle farther afield, for some instinct tells him that our dark-haired
Persian pussy is an epicure in her way, and would prefer philomel to
fish for her matutinal meal."
I am more convinced than ever that for the first two or three nights
after their arrival in this country the nightingales do not go to sleep
at all, but sing on all day as well as all night, the marvel being that
they do not get hoarse. But after a week the night-song is not nearly
so brilliant nor so prolonged, nor does it attain its pristine wild
joyfulness until spring once more gilds the fields with buttercups. By
day the song is not so noticeable, though ever and anon it sounds high
over the Babel of other birds' voices. But, of course, the thrush must
sing, the blackbird must pipe, and vulgar sparrows bicker and shriek,
and talk Billingsgate to each other, for sparrows having but little
music in their own nature, have just as little appreciation for the gift
in others.
"Look!" cried Frank; "yonder goes a bat."
"Yes," I said, "the bats are abroad every night now in full force. What
a wonderful power of flight is theirs; how quickly they can turn and
wheel, and how nimbly gyrate!"
"I much prefer the martin-swallow," said Ida.
"We have no more welcome summer, or rather spring visitor, Ida, than the
martin.
"`He twitters on the apple-trees,
He hails me at the dawn of day,
Each morn the recollected proof
Of time, that swiftly fleets away.
Fond of sunshine, fond of shade,
Fond of skies serene and clear,
E'en transient storms his joys invade,
In fairest seasons of the year.'"
"But I must be allowed to say that I object to the word `twitter,' so
usually applied to the song of the swallow. It is more than a
meaningless twitter. Although neither loud nor clear, it is--when heard
close at hand--inexpressibly sweet and soft and tender, more so than
even that of the linnet, and there are many joyous and happy notes in
it, which it is quite delightful to listen to. Indeed, hardly any one
could attentively observe the song of our domestic martin for any length
of time without feeling convinced that the dusky little minstrel was
happy--inexpressibly happy. Few, perhaps, know that there is a striking
similarity between the expressions by sound or, voice of the emotions of
all animals in the world, whether birds or beasts, and whether those
emotions be those of grief or pain, or joy itself. This is well worth
observing, and if you live in the country you will have a thousand
chances of doing so. Why does the swallow sing in so low a voice? At a
little distance you can hardly hear it at all. I have travelled a good
deal in forests and jungles and bush lands in Africa and the islands
about it, and, of course, I always went alone, that is, I never had any
visible companion--because only when alone can one enjoy Nature, and
study the ways and manners of birds and beasts, and I have been struck
by the silence of the birds, or, at all events, their absence of song in
many of them."
"Why should that be so, I wonder?" said Ida.
"Probably," said Frank, "because the woods where the birds dwell are so
full of danger that song would betray their presence, and the result be
death. And the same reason may cause the house martins to lower their
voices when they give vent to their little notes of tuneful joy."
There was a moment's pause: Aileen came and put her head in my lap.
"She is waiting for the story," said Frank.
"Oh! yes," my wife remarked; "both the dogs are sure to be interested in
`Toby's' tale."
"Why?" said Frank.
"Because," my wife replied, "Toby was a sheep."
Here Theodore Nero must join Aileen. The very name or mention of the
word "sheep," was sure to make that honest dog wag his tail.
"Two heads are better than one," I once remarked in his presence.
"Especially sheep's heads," said the dog.
And now for the story.
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