MYSTICAL PASTURES 235 



the crisp exhilarating air. Red and gray squir- 

 rels crashed about in the tree tops making noisy 

 merriment in their indescribable squirrel jargon. 

 Their thrashing and chattering in the trees was 

 almost equal to a crowd of schoolboys nutting. 

 With them the blue jays blew trumpets and 

 clanged bells, the woodpeckers drummed and 

 shrieked and crows and chewinks added to the 

 clamor. Even my chipmunks blew squeaky shrill 

 whistles in staccato notes. The pasture was full 

 of picnic. 



The drowse of noon seemed to put them all to 

 sleep. The pond was like glass and the black 

 duck flock which had quacked noisily there at 

 daybreak and drawn white lines of ripples across 

 its black surface had gone south. Everywhere 

 was silence. 



Everywhere silence, indeed, but it was the si- 

 lence only of the slumbering, deeper voiced deni- 

 zens. The swoon of heat in which they lay had 

 served to rouse other lives that the frost of the 

 morning had silenced. There are people who 

 never can hear a partridge drum. The vibra- 

 tions are pitched below the register of their ear. 

 There are others, far more in number who never 

 hear the shrilling of the pasture insects. Their 



