F.L.S. John Watson, Poachers and Poaching
“ The stem of the silver birch ceases to vibrate to the blackbird's whistle. The polyglot wood-thrush is dreaming of gilded fly and dewy morn, and finally that last far-off song has ceased. Silence—an intense holy calm—is over the woods. Chill comes, the dew rises, and twilight;—and the night side of nature. ”
