258 THE VOICES OF THE SEASONS 



lonely woods would come the similarly quavering 

 but more guttural, wilder and more lonesome call 

 of the raccoon. 



The absence of the earlier migrants would as 

 noticeably mark the season as the hail and fare- 

 well of others passing southward in the night- 

 time; the startled chuckle of the plover, with 

 hardly a hint in it of his springtime wail; the 

 scaipe of the snipe; the woodcock's whistle; the 

 bittern's squawk, voicing all his ungainliness; the 

 quick, sibilant beat of wild ducks' wings; and the 

 note of many a winged traveler whose identity can 

 only be guessed at. One may know when October 

 days have come by the gentle aUghting of falling 

 leaves, the incessant nut-rasping of the squirrels, 

 the busy stu" and low, absorbed notes of the jays 

 in the beeches, the irregular patter of dropping 

 mast, the chipmunk's clucking good-bye to the 

 outer world, and an occasional clamor suddenly 

 uprising from a great army of crows on its winged 

 retreat to more hospitable cUmes. 



Too soon one hears the scurry of wind-blown 

 leaves along the earth and the clash of naked 

 branches, the purr of the first snow faUing on 

 frozen grass and dry leaves and its light beat on 

 roof and pane. The latest migrating wild geese 

 announce their passage with a musical confusion 

 of clarion notes, and jays, hairy and downy wood- 

 peckers, nuthatches and chickadees come from 



