SEPTEMBER. 163 



The birds are almost silent; now and then we hear 

 one piping a few broken strains, but he does not seem to 

 be pleased with his own song, and no one answers him 

 from his feathered comrades. Their season of departure 

 is near, and numerous cares distract the tuneful band. 

 The swallows are no longer seen with twittering flight 

 skimming along the surface of the waters, or sailing aloft 

 in the air to warn the swain of coming showers. The 

 little busy wren, one of our latest warblers, is also silent, 

 and all are slowly leaving us one after another. It is a 

 pleasant occupation to watch their various movements, 

 their altered manners, and their unwonted shyness. They 

 sing no more, but twitter, chirrup, and complain, always 

 in motion, flying from tree to tree, and busy like those 

 preparing for a long journey. 



But as the birds have become silent, the insect myri- 

 ads, having attained the maturity of their lives, are in 

 glad chorus with all their little harps. The fields are 

 covered with crickets and grasshoppers, and the whole 

 air resounds with their hissing melodies. This is the 

 honeymoon of their transient lifetime, and they are 

 merrily singing their conjugal ditties, while the autum- 

 nal frosts are rapidly approaching to put an end to their 

 pleasures and their lives. While chirping night and day 

 among the green herbage, they are but chanting the death- 

 notes of their own brief existence. The little merry mul- 

 titude, to whose myriad voices we are now listening with 

 delight, contains not one individual of those who were 

 chirping in their places a year ago. All that generation 

 has passed away, and ere another spring arrives, the present 

 multitudinous choir will have perished likewise, to yield 

 their places to new millions, which the next summer will 

 usher into life. 



