WOODLAND PATHS 



of springtime. That may be, but I do not 

 see how they know, for the turtle, denied 

 a voice by naturalists and scriptural com- 

 mentators alike, nevertheless has one, and 

 a song of its own. 



A turtle, suddenly jolted, will give a 

 quaint little squeak as he yanks himself 

 back into his shell. That is common 

 enough, but this day there were two, sit- 

 ting up on nearby tussocks, that piped a 

 musical little song of spring, just a soft 

 trill that was eminently frog-like but dis- 

 tinct. I heard it and tried at first to 

 make it the trill of hylas, but it was 

 more of a trill and different in quality. 

 Try as I would I could but locate this 

 quaint little song in the throats of the 

 two turtles. I carefully scared one off 

 his perch and one trill ceased. I scared 

 the other, and both voices were silent, 



though here and there in the marsh I could 

 208 



