The Spring Peeper 



After the four calls, there is silence. Then 

 the call comes again, and is repeated sev- 

 eral times before the pause. 



We search among the leaves and moss. 

 No amount of looking reveals the shelter of 

 this atom of a frog so eager for spring. 

 The Peeper is still but a voice. 



In two weeks we go again. It is after- 

 noon, and the temperature is at 65° F. The 

 pussy-willows are no longer grey; they 

 have developed into spikes of golden or 

 green flowers, and are surrounded by early 

 bees and flies. The sound of a chorus of 

 frogs reaches us before we leave the car, 

 although the marsh is more than a quarter 

 of a mile distant. As we approach, and the 

 individual voices become distinct, we are 

 astonished that they are so loud and 

 penetrating compared with the isolated calls 

 we heard in early March, The combination 

 of sounds is almost ear-splitting. The 

 largest company seems to be in the con- 

 nected pools about the roots of a tangle 

 of grey birches and swamp-maples. It is 

 easy to penetrate here. We step from tree 

 root to tree root or from log to log over 

 shallow pools of black water filled with 

 brown leaves, grasses, and sticks. A slow 

 painted-turtle walks through the shallow 

 water, now in the shadow a black movement 

 only, now showing distinctly as it comes 

 into a spot of sunlight. But where are the 

 frogs? The voices are all about us. There 

 is one particularly loud one at our very feet. 

 We look; we scrutinize every leaf and stick 

 and bit of grass. It is maddening that we 

 cannot see the singer. With our slightest x . \t u n • 



° ° Late March. Spnng 



movement the sound ceases. And so again Peepers are singing both 

 and again. We finally retreat, with the ^^y ^"^ "i«^t when the 

 Peeper still a mysterious piping voice. 



141 



pussy-willows are in blos- 

 som. 



