CHAPTER VII 



LISTEN TO THE MOCKING-BIRD 



ABOUT the ist of August the delicate ear, no 

 less than the clear sight, can detect the wane 

 of summer. It is no use trying to comfort 

 yourself with the calendar, there is a still small 

 voice in the atmosphere. There will be sultry 

 days and close nights and volleying showers, but, 

 in spite of all, there is a growing restfulness, as if 

 the zest of it were over and the lusty hours had 

 grown mature. The first intimation will come 

 from the cricket that ticks the transitions of the 

 heyday in the grass, and presently the preliminary 

 creak of the cicada will remind you that the com 

 ing six weeks lead up to the frost. 



August, in spite of all her furbelows, loses 

 some of the romp of June and July. She is like 

 a young matron whose beauty is shadowed with 

 the coming sheaves. The corn stands tasselled 

 in dark green platoons. When the wind throws 

 up the long blades, they are like the gonfalons of 



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