MINSTREL WEATHER 



to cover with that penurious vigilance 

 which a crow finds so objectionable. The 

 rabbits, scampering and wary in the new 

 clover time, sit out in the hot sun a good 

 deal now, like convalescent patients; they 

 will keep this up until the faint noons of 

 November, storing the warmth that lets 

 them sleep, come winter, through many a 

 hunting party overhead. The woodpecker 

 knocks with less ferocity. Stately on his 

 favorite dead branch at the lake's edge the 

 blue-armored kingfisher sits to watch the 

 ripple. Only the grasshopper persists with 

 tragical intensity in his futile rehearsal for 

 the role of humming bird. A satirical 

 Italian compares man to the grasshopper, 

 but no man is capable of such devotion 

 to baffled aspirations. Practice in grace 

 makes him more and more imperfect. 

 Young wood duck, with portentous dignity, 

 follow their mother down the topaz creek 

 in single file, an attentive field class, ob- 

 serving the demented lucky bugs, the red- 

 lined lily pads of the coves, the turtles sound 

 asleep on the warm stones. For the wood's 

 feathered children this is no month of play 

 and slumber; it will soon be autumn, and 

 they must attempt the long flight. 



[44] 



