down so thick and close, that only a gleam of the bright water can be
seen, even in the sunlight--there the fireflies crowd, and the damp
foliage is all alive with their dazzling light.

In this sweet still hour, just at the dewfall, the rush of whirring wings
may be heard from the islands, or in the forest, bordering on the water's
edge; and out of hollow logs and hoary trunks of trees come forth the
speckled night-hawks, cutting the air with their thin sharp wide wings,
and open beak, ready to entrap the unwary moth, or moskitoe, that float so
joyously upon the evening air. One after another, sweeping in wider
circles, come forth these birds of prey, till the whole air seems alive
with them; darting hither and thither, and uttering wild shrill screams,
as they rise higher and higher in the upper air, till some are almost lost
to sight. Sometimes one of them will descend with a sudden swoop, to the
lower regions of the air, just above the highest tree-tops, with a hollow
booming sound, as if some one were blowing in an empty vessel.

At this hour, too, the bats would quit their homes in hollow trees and
old rocky banks, and flit noiselessly abroad, over the surface of the
quiet star-lit lake; and now also would begin the shrill, trilling note of
the green-frog, and the deep hoarse bass of the bull-frog, which ceases
only at intervals, through the long, warm summer night. You might fancy a
droll sort of dialogue was being carried on among them. At first, a great
fellow, the patriarch of the swamp, will put up his head, which looks very
much like a small pair of bellows, with yellow leather sides; and say in a
harsh, guttural tone, "Go to bed, go to bed, go to bed."

After a moment's pause, two or three will rise and reply, "No, I won't!
no, I won't! no, I won't!"