AN EVENING SERENADE. 75 



the old farm-house. One idea alone possessed 

 the minds of the male musicians. That idea was 

 love passion "that greatest thing in the uni- 

 verse." Long and loud the cymbals sounded, 

 each shuffle, each note, doubtless accompanied 

 by the wish that the next would call from the 

 skies, from the branches above or about them 

 from anywhere, it mattered not one of their 

 form and kind. One to whom they could "whis- 

 per sweet nothings" one whom they could ca- 

 ress tenderly with long antennae one whom, 

 in time, they could clasp lovingly with their 

 slender limbs and forget cymbals, calls, skies, 

 food, earth, everything, in that long embrace 

 which to them is the acme, the one, the highest 

 object of their mature existence. 



The serenade continued thus, almost un- 

 broken, from dusk till dawn. A serenade it 

 was in truth a song of love of passion, 

 poured out to the listening ears of the other sex. 

 At times a single player dropped out of the 

 chorus. His work, his love calls had not been in 

 vain. From some leafy retreat, where she had 

 been hidden by day, a lady katydid slowly 



