Prose Master

It was near twelve. Along the northern horizon a rosy glow, fading to the west and deepening to the east, marked the unseen dip of the midnight sun. The gloaming and the dawn were so comingled that there was no night,--simply a wedding of day with day, a scarcely perceptible blending of two circles of the sun. A kildee chirped goodnight; the full rich throat of a robin proclaimed good-morrow. From an island on the breast of the Yukon a colony of wild fowl voiced its interminable wrongs, while a loon laughed mockingly back across a still stretch of river.

Jack London, The God of His Fathers