(Tloon 



that falls only when the leaves hang limp, when the 

 earth warms in the shadows, when the wood-lily 

 opens in the sun, and the whir of the cicada times 

 the throbbing of the heat. And when that some- 

 thing falls, then I know it is summer. 



This is a late July day, but its dawn was still of 

 the springtime. At daybreak the birds were singing, 

 fresh and full-throated as in May; then the sun 

 burned through the mist and the chorus ceased. 

 Now I do not hear even the chewink and the talka- 

 tive vireo. Only the fiery notes of the scarlet tana- 

 ger come to me through the dry white heat of the 

 noon, and the resonant, reverberated song of the 

 indigo bunting, a hot, metallic, quivering song, as 

 out of a hot and copper sky. 



There are nestlings still in the woods. This indigo 

 bunting has eggs or young in the bushes up the hill- 

 side; the scarlet tanager but lately finished his nest 

 in the tall oaks ; I looked in upon some half-fledged 

 cuckoos along the fence. But all of these are late. 

 The year's young are upon the wing. A few of the 

 spring's flowers are still opening. I noticed the bees 

 upon some tardy raspberry blossoms; and yonder, 

 amid the fixed shining colors of the wooded ridge, I 



