<S>ut of tbe beaten ftatb 



I leaped the lane fence and plunged into a wil- 

 derness of weeds. The tangled growth was no 

 evidence of neglect or of poor farming, for the 

 heat and moisture of the early summer have proved 

 too much for the agriculturist, and many a spot I 

 passed was rank as a tropical jungle. There was 

 ragweed high above my head, and sensitive cassia 

 almost waist-deep. Mullein stood out like the 

 tree cacti of Arizona, and never boneset and cat- 

 nip quite so flourishing. Bees were busy, butter- 

 flies were gay, and angry, in appearance at least, 

 the myriad gorgeous dragon-flies that darted more 

 erratically than lightning. I heard the harvest- 

 fly everywhere but near at hand, and at my feet 

 the crickets creaked without ceasing. This con- 

 stant insect stridulation does not pass for sound. 

 It seems only to intensify the silence. We are 

 conscious of it, yet without listening, and it ceases, 

 or seems to, the moment an over-brave song-spar- 

 row, or the tireless and tiresome indigo-bird essay 

 to sing. Strange as it may seem, noontide song 

 in August is misplaced music. It is more fitting 

 to fill the void with the voices that fancy conjures 

 up. The birds thought otherwise and sang glee- 

 fully when I reached a shady nook where the 

 ground was moistened by a spring that scarcely 

 broke through the sod. A sprightly cardinal 

 whistled to its feathered friends to gather here, and 

 eyed me with a questioning look, wondering if I 

 had also accepted his invitation. I did not tarry 

 148 



