Page:Southern Life in Southern Literature.djvu/473

Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay; And now an owlet, far away, Cries twice or thrice, " T-o-o-w-h-o-o-"; And cool dim moths of mottled gray Flit through the dew. The silence sounds its frog-bassoon, Where, on the woodland creek s lagoon, Pale as a ghostly girl Lost mid the trees, looks down the moon, With face of pearl. Within the shed where logs, late hewed, Smell forest-sweet, and chips of wood Make blurs of white and brown, The brood-hen huddles her warm brood Of teetering down. The clattering guineas in the tree Din for a time; and quietly The henhouse, near the fence, Sleeps, save for some brief rivalry Of cocks and hens. A cowbell tinkles by the rails, Where, streaming white in foaming pails, Milk makes an uddery sound; While overhead the black bat trails Around and round. The night is still. The slow cows chew A drowsy cucl. The bird that flew And sang is in its nest. It is the time of falling dew, Of dreams and rest.