Her labours have ceased, her birds are silent; she, too, rests, and in ceasing to do for us she gives us herself.

One by one the silvery points of light break out of the darkness overhead, and the faithful stars look down on the little earth they have watched over these countless years.

The very names they bear recall the vanished races who waited for their appearing and counted them friends.

Now that the lamps are lighted and the work of the day is done, is it strange that the venerable mother, whose lullabies have soothed so many generations into sleep, should herself appeal to us in some intimate and personal way?
With the fading out of shore and sea and forest line something deeper and more spiritual rises in the soul as the mists rise on the lowlands and over the surface of the waters.

We surrender ourselves to it silently, reverently, and a change no less subtle and penetrating is wrought in us.