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 and its solitary inmate; but the open well with its long sweep, the clump of lilacs, the spreading beech with initials cut long years ago,—these were a poem.

While the day was yet young, I passed by, and Silas was sitting on the porch. The quiet of this month of day-dreams was unbroken. The cat-bird hopped about the grass, but was mute; a song-sparrow was perched on the topmost twig of a dead quince-bush, but did not sing; a troop of crows was passing overhead in perfect silence. Feeling more strongly than ever the moodiness of the morning, I strove to break the spell by shouting, with unnecessary emphasis, "Good-morning, Uncle Silas." With a sudden start the old man looked up and stared wildly about him. Straightway the cat-bird chirped, the sparrow sang, and from over the tree-tops came the welcome cawing of the crows. Even a black cat came from the house and rubbed its arched back against Silas's knees. The spell was broken, and the old man growled (for he could not talk as other men), "I'm glad you've come."