A DAY IN JUNE 121 



the meadow, while I turned over in my 

 mind a thought concerning the nature of 

 those sounds a class by themselves, some 

 of them by no means unmusical which 

 are particularly enjoyable when borne to us 

 from a distance: crow voices, the baying of 

 hounds, cowbell tinkles, and the like. The 

 nasal, high-pitched, penetrating call of the 

 little Canadian nuthatch is one of the best 

 examples of what I mean. Ank, ank : the 

 sounds issue from the depths of trackless 

 woods, miles and miles away as it seems, just 

 reaching us, without a breath to spare ; dy- 

 ing upon the very tympanum, like a spent 

 runner who drops exhausted at the goal, 

 touching it only with his finger tips. Yet 

 the ear is not fretted. It makes no attempt 

 to hear more. Ank, ank : that is the whole 

 story, and we see the bird as plainly as if he 

 hung from a cone at the top of the next fir 

 tree. 



"No tramping to-day," said my friends 

 from the cottage as we met at table. They 

 had been reading the thermometer, which is 

 the modern equivalent for observing the 

 wind and regarding the clouds. But my 



