HAY HARVEST TIME 



tions of the tree fern. They fill the glades 

 and scale the cliffs. They mingle enchant- 

 ingly along creeks and at the edge of the 

 pond with the regal hosts of the blue 

 flag the lavishly sown iris of the meadows. 

 They are matted close in the swamps, 

 plumy on the hilltops. From mosses on 

 old logs spring ferns almost as faery as the 

 fronds of the moss itself. 



Into the whispering twilight of June come 

 many creatures to play strange games and 

 sing such songs as even the many-stringed 

 orchestra of the sunlit hayfield does not 

 know. The swooping bat darts from thick- 

 hung woodbine and noiselessly crosses 

 the garden, brushes the hollyhocks, and 

 speeds toward the moon. Moths, white 

 and pallid green, wander like spirits 

 among the peonies. Sometimes the hum- 

 ming bird shakes the trumpet vine in the 

 dark, queerly restless, though he is Apol- 

 lo's acolyte. The fireflies are lambently 

 awing. The cricket's pleading, interrupted 

 song is half silenced by the steady, hot 

 throb of the locust's. The tree toad's 

 eerie note comes faint and sweet, but from 

 what cranny of the bark he only knows. i 

 The mother bird, guardian even in sleep, 



135] 



