black line of the railway, and the swampy bottom lands
gradually rising to the culmination of the tree-crowned
summit above him. His cocks were crowing warlike
challenges to rivals on neighbouring farms. His hens
were carolling their spring egg-song. In the barn yard
ganders were screaming stridently. Over the lake and the
cabin, with clapping snowy wings, his white doves circled
in a last joy-flight before seeking their cotes in the
stable loft. As the light grew fainter, the Harvester
worked slower. Often he leaned against the casing, and
closed his eyes to rest them. Sometimes he whistled
snatches of old songs to which his mother had cradled
him, and again bits of opera and popular music he had
heard on the streets of Onabasha. As he worked, the
sun went down and a half moon appeared above the wood
across the lake. Once it seemed as if it were a silver bowl
set on the branch of a giant oak; higher, it rested a tilted
crescent on the rim of a cloud.

The dog waited until he could endure it no longer, and
straightening from his crouching position, he took a few
velvet steps forward, making faint, whining sounds in his
throat. When the man neither turned his head nor gave
him a glance, Belshazzar sank to earth again, satisfied
for the moment with being a little closer. Across Loon
Lake came the wavering voice of a night love song.
The Harvester remembered that as a boy he had shrunk
from those notes until his mother explained that they
were made by a little brown owl asking for a mate to
come and live in his hollow tree. Now he rather liked