85 



bud again," only its heart is so full of 

 moisture as to have lost power to close. 



The presage of rain falls early upon the 

 birds. Before dawn they begin singing. 

 All the orchard rings with clear thrush 

 notes; robins sing, loud and sweet, from 

 the hedge-rows, undervoiced by the wrens' 

 reedy call ; the big oaks are vocal with 

 blackbird chatter ; the wild cherry at the 

 field's edge sends you out the oriole's clear 

 jangle, the wood-pigeon's coo ; the cries of 

 feeding partridges come faint and far from 

 the bush pasture ; crows and woodpeckers, 

 screaming noisily, dart like feathered can- 

 non-balls across meadow and corn-field. 



Before sunrise all are silent. The barn- 

 yard din, too, has died away. Instead of 

 crowing, the cocks feed industriously ; small 

 chicks peep in sleepy content from under 

 brooding wings. Cattle graze quietly, with 

 only now and then an upward glance, in 

 place of running wildly about, with stiff 

 tails, lowered heads, and uplifted voices, as 

 they did when first awake. 



Out in the far pasture the colts are run- 

 ning races. They snuff the rain afar off, 

 and grow fairly wild. See how they rear 

 and plunge and prance, or run with heads 

 daintily aside, whinnying faintly one to an- 



