ILLUSTRATIONS

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THEY WERE FREE TO GO WHERE THEY CHOSE6

KNOCKED HIS BROTHER DOWN40

HE STARTED OFF FOR A NIGHT'S RAMBLE72

THEY LIVED IN THE FOREST AFTER THAT109

THE MARSH SEEMED SO EMPTY AND LONELY127

COLLIE CHASED HIM AWAYFrontispiece 138

TWINKLING WITH HUNDREDS OF TINY LIGHTS157

IN WINTER THEY TURNED WHITE178

THE MICE MAKE WINTER THEIR PLAYTIME195

THE HUMMING-BIRD AND THE HAWK-MOTH218

My Dear Little Friends:—You can never guess how much I have enjoyed writing these stories of the night-time, and I must tell you how I first came to think of doing so. I once knew a girl—and she was not a very little girl, either,—who was afraid of the dark. And I have known three boys who were as brave as could be by daylight, but who would not run on an errand alone after the lamps were lighted. They never seemed to think what a beautiful, restful, growing time the night is for plants and animals, and even for themselves. I thought that if they knew more of what happens between sunset and sunrise they would love the night as well as I.

It may be that you will never see Bats flying freely, or find the Owls flapping silently among the trees without touching even a twig. Perhaps while these things are happening you must be snugly tucked in bed. But that is no reason why you should not be told what they do while you are dreaming. Before this, you know, I have told you more of what is done by daylight in meadow, forest, farmyard, and pond. It would be a very queer world if we could not know about things without seeing them for ourselves, and you may like to think, when you are going to sleep, that hundreds and thousands of tiny out-of-door people are turning, and stretching, and going to find their food. In the morning, when you are dressing in your sunshiny rooms, they are cuddling down for a good day's rest.

I think I ought to tell you that I have not been alone when writing these stories. I have often been in the meadow and the forest at night, and have seen and heard many interesting things, but my good Cat, Silvertip, has known far more than I of the night-doings of the out-of-door people. He has been beside me at my desk, and although at times he has shut his eyes and taken Cat-naps while I wrote, there have been many other times when he has taken the pen right out of my hand. He has even tried running the typewriter with his dainty white paws, and he has gone over every story I have written. I do not say that he has written any himself, but you can see that he has been very careful what I wrote, and I have learned a great deal from him that I never knew before. He is a very good and clever Cat, and if you like these stories I am sure it must be partly because he had a paw in the writing of them.

Your friend, Clara D. Pierson.

Stanton, Michigan, April 15th, 1901.