the birds in my yard singing that old, old chorus
against man's inhumanity.

Towards the middle of the afternoon I went away across the country--by
any direction; I cared not what. On my way back I passed through
a large rear lot belonging to my neighbors, and adjoining my own,
in which is my stable. There has lately been imported into this
part of Kentucky from England the much-prized breed of the beautiful
white Berkshire. As I crossed the lot, near the milk-trough,
ash-heap, and paring of fruit and vegetables thrown from my neighbor's
kitchen, I saw a litter of these pigs having their awkward sport
over some strange red plaything, which one after another of them
would shake with all its might, root and tear at, or tread into
greater shapelessness. It was all there was left of him.

I entered my long yard. If I could have been spared the sight
of that! The sun was setting. Around me was the last peace and
beauty of the world. Through a narrow avenue of trees I could see
my house, and on its clustering vines fell the angry red of the
sun darting across the cool green fields.

The last hour of light touches the birds as it touches us. When
they sing in the morning, it is with the happiness of the earth;
but as the shadows fall strangely about them, and the helplessness
of the night comes on, their voices seem to be lifted up like the
loftiest poetry of the human spirit, with sympathy for realities
and mysteries past all understanding.

A great choir was hymning now. On the tops of the sweet old
honeysuckles the cat-birds; robins in the low boughs of maples; on
the high limb of the elm the silvery-throated lark, who had stopped
as he passed from meadow to meadow; on a fence rail of the distant
wheat-field the quail--and many another. I walked to and fro,
receiving the voice of each as a spear hurled at my body. The sun
sank. The shadows rushed on and deepened. Suddenly, as I turned
once more in my path, I caught sight of the figure of Georgiana
moving straight towards me from the direction of the garden. She
was bareheaded, dressed in white; and she advanced over the smooth
lawn, through evergreens and shrubs, with a gentle grace and dignity
of movement such as I had never beheld. I kept my weary pace, and
when she came up I did not lift my eyes.

"Adam!" she said, with gentle reproach. I stood still then, but
with my face turned away.

"Forgive me!" All girlishness was gone out of her voice. I