326 AFTERMATH 



It was a staccato day, this second of November. 

 Every thing was sparkling, air, sand, water, sky. 

 Even the sounds were crisp and clear cut. The 

 dry leaves crackled and snapped, the wind played 

 over the corn -stacks with the dancing measure of 

 castanets, while every remaining stalk of Marsh 

 Grass, Wild Rice, and the Old Fog of the sandy 

 fields rustled in a different key. The bird notes, 

 too, were all staccato. The nuthatch's sharp quank, 

 the blue jay's call, the yellow hammer's wick-wick- 

 wick, and the cry of the circling red -tailed hawk, 

 no, not all, for in the upland stubble field from 

 which the buckwheat had been taken, rose a sweet 

 legato song, clear, if a trifle thin. Spring-o'-the- 

 year, Spring - o'- the - year, called one voice to 

 another, and a flock of meadow larks arose and 

 flew over us. 



"What deceitful birds!" gasped Flower Hat, as 

 she struggled to face the wind and force it to blow 

 back the locks of hair that were blinding her, 

 turn up the collar of her jacket, and give the soft 

 felt headgear she now wore a tilt up behind and 

 down in front, all at the same time. 



"Not deceitful, hopeful or reminiscent, either 

 you please," I answered. "No more deceitful than 

 Indian Summer itself that spreads a golden haze 



