Beacon's box, and Mr. G. Bird was out on the stage singing that glorious
coo in the aria in Saint-Saëns' "Samson and Delilah," and I was trying to
answer him. Suddenly I was wide awake sitting up in a billowed softness,
while moonlight of a different color was sifting in through the gable
windows and the most lovely calling notes were coming in on its beams.
Without a moment's hesitation I answered in about six notes of that Delilah
song which was the only sound ready in my mind. Then I listened and I am
not sure that I heard a reedy laugh under my window as just the two notes
succeeding the ones I had given forth came in on the dawn beams. Then all
was as still and quiet as the hush of midnight.

In about two seconds I had vaulted forth from between the high posts,
splashed into a funny old wooden tub bound together with brass rims,
whirled my black mop into a knot, slipped into the modish boots, corduroys,
and a linen smock, and was running out into the peculiar moon-dawn with the
swiftness of a boy.

But I was too late! The silver-moon sky was growing rosy over behind the
barn as I peered about, and a mist was rolling away from between the trees,
but not a soul in all the world was awake, and I was alone.

"Did he call me?" I asked of myself under my breath. And the answer I got
was from the Golden Bird, who sent a long, triumphant, eager "salutation to
the dawn" from out the shadows of the barn.

Eagerly I flew to him, and the minute I entered the apartment of the Bird
family I discovered that I had been only half dreaming about my early
morning opera. Pan had come and gone. Upon the door was pinned a piece of
torn brown wrapping-paper upon which I found these penciled words: