THE SUMMIT OF THE YEARS 



at Woodchuck Lodge, is that you hear the day 

 ushered in by the birds. Toward autumn you hear 

 the crows first, making proclamation in all directions 

 that it is time to be up and doing, and that life is a 

 good thing. There is not a bit of doubt or discour- 

 agement in their tones. They have enjoyed the 

 night, and they have a stout heart for the day. 

 They proclaim it as they fly over my porch at five 

 o'clock in the morning; they call it from the orchard, 

 they bandy the message back and forth in the neigh- 

 boring fields; the air is streaked with cheery greet- 

 ings and raucous salutations. Toward the end of 

 August, or in early September, I witness with pleas- 

 ure their huge mass meetings or annual congress on 

 the pasture hills or in the borders of the woods. Be- 

 fore that time, you see them singly or in loose bands; 

 but on some day in late summer, or in early autumn, 

 you see the clans assemble as if for some rare festival 

 and grand tribal discussion. A multitudinous caw- 

 ing attracts your attention, when you look hillward 

 and see a swarm of dusky forms circling in the air, 

 their voices mingling in one dissonant wave of sound, 

 while loose bands of other dusky forms come from 

 all points of the compass to join them. Presently 

 many hundred crows are assembled, alternately 

 lighted upon the ground and silently walking about 

 as if feeding, or circling in the air, cawing as if they 

 would be heard in the next township. What they 

 are doing or saying or settling, what it all means, 

 40 



