Volume 1 — WHIP-POOR-WILL

When the ev’ning shadows lengthen Down the hill and ’cross the vale, And the trees are imaged darkly Where the river glimmers pale; Then I love to sit and listen, While the air is warm and still, To a voice from out the poplars, Crying softly, “Whip-poor-will!” Slowly, slowly creeps the twilight From the east unto the west, Till it fills the peaceful valley, Sends the forest folk to rest; All except a noisy fellow In the poplars near the mill, Whose demands are most insistent For the punishment of “Will.” Soon the vale is dark and lonely, Closed in sleep each drowsy eye; Through the clouds the stars are peeping For their watch tower in the sky; Only winds that whisper softly, In the poplars by the mill, Listen to the night-bird calling, Till the daybreak, “Whip-poor-will.” —Geo. E. Winkler.