The Autumn Wood-Path 



Strange how grateful it is to the ear, some 

 times, not to hear the birds singing! But 

 it is because you have heard them singing 

 all summer long that you can be pleased 

 with October's silence. The sweetest song 

 needs silence after it to fill the measure of 

 its delight. 



But the autumn woods have the bird cries, 

 though not the bird songs. You will not 

 have walked far along the wood-path before 

 you are startled by that feathered alarmist, 

 the blue jay. He hears you, or rather di 

 vines you, afar off, and makes the woods 

 ring with his hoarse scream of warning. By 

 and by you see him, plunging from tree to 

 tree in short, scolding flights, absurdly in 

 dignant that you should have invaded his 

 privacy, even so long after the nesting sea 

 son is over. His is the cry that you will 

 oftenest hear in the woods from now until 

 snow flies. It is one of trie audible acces 

 sories of an autumn walk; and though the 

 jay's voice is essentially harsh, I have 

 learned to love it because of its associations. 

 This bird has two distinct cries you could 

 never call them songs, either in quality or 

 variety of sound. One is the penetrating, 

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