When evening comes the sun's last smiles reach far into the timber and
linger lovingly on the boles of the trees with a tender beauty.
Wood-flowers face the vanishing light and hold it until the scalloped
edges of the oak leaves etched against the sky have been blurred by
the gathering darkness. Long streams of cinnabar and orange flare up
in the western sky. Salmon-colored clouds float into sight, grow gray
and gradually melt away. In the dusky depths of the woods the thrush
sings his thrilling, largo appassionato, requiem to the dying day. 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. By the light of the
stars the non-essentials of life are seen in their true proportions.
There are so many things which have only a commercial value, and even
that is uncertain. Why strive for them or worry about them? In nature
there is a noble indifference to everything save the attainment of
the ideal. Flattery aids not an inch to the growth of a tendril, blame
does not take one tint from the sky. In nature is the joy of living,
of infinite, eternal life. Her eternity is now, today, this hour. Each
of her creatures seeks the largest, fullest, best life possible under
given conditions. The wild raspberries on which the catbi