May-Day out of Town. 101 



day, it is summer. If there is any meaning in 

 temperature, in the condition of vegetation, in the 

 activity of animal life, then summer reached us 

 during the past night. She came with the whip- 

 poorwill, as, according to the Indians, she always 

 does. What could have given rise to the idea of 

 a whole season sandwiched between winter and 

 summer? 



As so often happens, the reckless profusion of 

 attractions was bewildering, and every one with 

 merit worthy of undivided attention. It is well to 

 be a specialist in such a place. He is the happier 

 botanist who never hears a bird sing. This morn- 

 ing, in and about the marshes, little and great 

 frogs vied with each other in shouting the merits 

 of May-day. The shrill, fife-like notes of some, 

 the rattling click of others, and the deep bass of 

 batrachian patriarchs proved a mighty chorus, that 

 impressed if it did not charm. Think of frogs, 

 perhaps tens of thousands to an acre, and each 

 screeching, roaring, whistling at its best ! These 

 creatures have an object in all this, but what? 

 The naturalists say these sounds are love-calls; 

 but what of affection as violent as their cacopho- 



