VOICES OF THE BROOKSIDE 181 



lazy wind and to watch the myriad people of the 

 brook is joy enough for an August afternoon. 

 Bird songs come to me from the trees overhead, 

 far and near, some of them melodious, others 

 songs only by courtesy. Down stream a red- 

 eyed vireo preaches persistently in an elm top. 

 Across the pasture I hear the rich voice of an 

 oriole stopping his caterpillar hunting long 

 enough to trill a round phrase or two from the 

 apple-tree bough. A flock of chickadees, old and 

 young, comes through, nervously active in their 

 hunting and with voices in which there is a tang 

 of the coming autumn. Up in the pines a blue jay 

 clamors with the same clarion ring in his tones. 

 I do not know whether the different quality is in 

 the air, or in the birds, but I am sure that after 

 the first of August is past I could tell it by the 

 notes of these two even if I had lost all track of 

 the calendar. A black and white creeping 

 warbler comes head first down a nearby tree, and 

 then sits right side up a moment to squeak the 

 half-dozen squeaks which are his best in the way 

 of melody. Like a fine accompaniment the 

 brook's voice blends with all these, mellows and 

 supplements them till in the woodland symphony 

 there is no jarring note. Nature has this won- 



