A MIDSUMMER IDYL 



fields, or in front of the open hay-barn doors, as I 

 do, and feel the fruition and satisfaction of nature 

 all about you. The brimming meadows seem fairly 

 to purr as the breezes stroke them; the trees rustle 

 their myriad leaves as if in gladness; the many- 

 colored butterflies dance by; the steel blue of the 

 swallows' backs glistens in the sun as they skim the 

 fields; and the mellow boom of the passing bumble- 

 bee but enhances the sense of repose and content- 

 ment that pervades the air. The hay cures; the 

 oats and corn deepen their hue; the delicious 

 fragrance of the last wild strawberries is on the 

 breeze; your mental skies are lucid, and life has 

 the midsummer fullness and charm. 



As I linger here I note the oft-repeated song of 

 the scarlet tanager in the maple woods that crown 

 a hill above me, and in the loft overhead two broods 

 of swallows are chattering and lining up their 

 light-colored breasts on the rims of their nests, or 

 trying their newly fledged wings while clinging to 

 its sides. The only ominous and unwelcome sound 

 is the call of the cuckoo, which I hear and have 

 heard at nearly all hours for many days, and which 

 surely bodes rain. The countryman who first 

 named this bird the *'rain crow'* hit the mark. 

 The cuckoo is a devourer of worms and caterpillars, 

 and why he should be interested in rain is hard to 

 see. The tree-toad calls before and during a 

 shower, mainly, I think, because he likes to have 



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