210 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



They are of my own mind : they like old 

 farms within sight of hills. Crows caw, a 

 jay screams, and now and then the hurrying 

 drumbeats of a grouse come to my ears. 

 Somewhere in the big sugar grove behind 

 me a great-crested flycatcher has been shout- 

 ing almost ever since I sat down. The 

 " great screaming flycatcher," he should be 

 called. His voice is more to the point than 

 his crest. He loves the sound of it. 



How radiantly beautiful the red maple 

 groves are just now ! I can see two, one 

 near, the other far off, both in varying 

 shades of red, yellow, and green. The earth 

 wears them as ornaments, and is as proud of 

 them, I dare believe, as of the Parthenon. 

 They are bright, but not too bright. They 

 speak of youth — and the eye hears them. 

 A red-eye preaches as if he knew the day 

 of the week. What a gift of reiteration ! 

 " Buy the truth," he says. " Going, going ! " 

 But it is never gone. Dowti the valley road 

 goes an open carriage. In it are a man and 

 a woman, the woman with a parasol over her 

 head. A song sparrow sings his little tune, 

 and the bluebird gives himself up to war- 



