The dog slept on.

It was the noonday hour, when the stillness of the forest almost matched that of midnight.

The birds were more quiet than at any other time during daylight.
Wetzel reclined there with his head against the stone, and his rifle resting across his knees.
He listened now to the sounds of the forest.

The soft breeze fluttering among the leaves, the rain-call of the tree frog, the caw of crows from distant hilltops, the sweet songs of the thrush and oriole, were blended together naturally, harmoniously.
But suddenly the hunter raised his head.

A note, deeper than the others, a little too strong, came from far down the shaded hollow.
To Wetzel's trained ear it was a discord.