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Updated: July 3, 2025
Never, it seemed to Maddy, who sat and sang, while the night-bird on a distant tree, awakened by the low song, uttered a responsive note, and the hours crept on to midnight. Human nature could endure no more, and when the crazy man said to her, "Now sing of Him who died on Calvary," Maddy's answer was a gaping cry as she fell fainting on the pillow.
As far as the eye can reach, water, blue, rolling water, tinged with rising sunlight in its morning purity; the night-bird folds her wings, which she has laved in the white sea-foam, softening the sigh of the breakers to the ear of those who slumbered; the white sails bow their heads, while the old tars wonder what makes them so happy.
It was the solitary Republican of the United Irish day, Robert Holmes, coming to discharge his last duty to the great Republican of a younger century. The applause of the galleries was hushed by the crier's voice "Silence! take off your hats"; and on the right stalked in the gaunt figure of James Henry Monahan. Triumph, animosity and fear marked his night-bird face.
He had had none of the joys of infancy; his youth had been spent wearily under the peevish discipline of a cloister; he had entered on his young manhood with all the awkwardness and timidity of a night-bird that is made to fly in the day.
"You are a rogue, my man, an impudent and a black-hearted rogue and vagabond. I have passed an hour with you. Oh! believe me, I feel myself disgraced! And you have eaten and drank at my table. But now I am sick at your presence; the day has come, and the night-bird should be off to his roost. Will you go before, or after?" "Which you please," returned the poet, rising.
Nueva Cordoba lay still amongst her rustling palms; the ocean rippled gold, and like gold-dust were the scintillating clouds of insects; the limpid river palely slid between its mangrove banks, a low wind sighed, a night-bird called; far, far in the forest behind the hill a muffled roar proclaimed that the jaguar had found its meat. The moon rose such a moon as never had England looked upon.
"He went prowling in Manitou, and in Barbazon's Tavern they struck him down." "Who struck him down?" she asked. It seemed to her that the night-bird sang so loud that she could scarcely hear her own voice. "A drunken Gorgio," he replied. "The horseshoe is for luck all the world over, and it brought its luck to Manitou to-night.
To which end I gathered a handful of essays, and few characters of such things as by my own experience I could say Probatum est: not that thereby I should either please the reader, or show exquisiteness of invention, or curious style; seeing what I write of is but the child of sorrow, bred by discontentments and nourished up with misfortunes, to whose help melancholy Saturn gave his judgment, the night-bird her invention, and the ominous raven brought a quill taken from his own wing, dipped in the ink of misery, as chief aiders in this architect of sorrow."
"Sh-sh!" she whispered, and then, whipping around me, closed the door with no more noise than the wing of a night-bird might make. "In there, and don't move on your life." She pointed to a closet, but I shook my head. "Not if I can help myself," I said. "I have just come out of a deep, deep ditch, and I want to hear the splutter." I was whispering, too, such was the woman's influence.
Up from the wooded valley came the far-off purr of a stream over stony bottom and the low washing sound only accentuated the stillness. The shrill cry of some lonely night-bird stabbed the atmosphere with a throb of pain. Again the dog snapped out a bark and again there was utter quiet. "One chance in a thousand," said I to myself, "only one in a thousand; but I'll take it!"
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