90 



THE FALL OF THE YEAR 



of the soaring eagles, nor the husky yap, yap, yap 

 of the fox. But, if you do, "make a note of it," as 

 Captain Cuttle would say ; for the tongues that utter 

 this wild language are fast ceasing to speak to us. 



IV 

 One strangely sweet, strangely wild voice that you 



still may hear in our old apple orchards, is the whim- 

 pering, whinnying voice of the 

 little screech owl. " When night 

 comes," says the bird book, " one 

 may hear the screech owl's trem- 

 ulous, wailing whistle. It is a 

 weird, melancholy call, welcomed 

 only by those who love Nature's 

 voice, whatever be the medium 

 through which she speaks." Now 

 listen this autumn for the screech 

 owl ; listen until the weird, mel- 

 ancholy call is welcomed by you, 

 until the shiver that creeps up 

 your back turns off through your 



hair, as you hear the low plaintive voice speaking to 



you out of the hollow darkness, out of the softness 



and the silence of night. 



You ought to hear the brown leaves rustling un- 

 der your feet. 



