HARBINGERS OF SUMMER 



of the violet dusk of some June 

 dawn you will see the summer coming 

 over the hills from the south and you will 

 know her from the spring at sight. I do 

 not know how. I doubt if the whip-poor- 

 will, who has a jealous eye on the dawn 

 and its signs, for its first appearance 

 means bedtime and surcease from labor 

 for him, knows. Yet he feels her presence, 

 for he waits it as a sign to select the spot 

 for his nest. 



The whip-poor-will is hardly a home 

 builder. He just occupies a flat for the 

 summer, a place that seems no more fit for 

 a home than any other flat. Just as I 

 often wonder how apartment-house dwell- 



ers find their way back at dinner-time, in 

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