AN OCTOBER DIARY, 313 



but, even without their occurrence, the evidence is abun- 

 dant, not merely to lead one to suspect, but to practi- 

 cally demonstrate to him, that crows have a spoken lan- 

 guage. 



The clear, white, icy casing tliat enveloped every 

 blade of grass and twisted twig they call a " killing 

 frost;" but what does it kill? The nights are still as 

 noisy as before it came, so a certain range of animal life 

 is unaffected. The grass is yet green as in midsummer. 

 There is a sickening something in the air of August 

 that poisons one who lingers too late afield, which is 

 now wanting ; this the frost killed, and the rambler can 

 realize its absence. Nature otherwise remains the same. 

 We hear no evening chorus of frogs, it is true ; but 

 even they are not altogether silent, and the toad by the 

 kitchen door still rattles his vesper thanks for the noon- 

 day feast of flies. Tliere is no sure guide to the effects 

 of frost; it comes too often after nature has put on her 

 autumn aspect to say that it is the cause of any change 

 other than the one I have mentioned. 



At the bend of the hill or terrace, among a few young 

 native trees, I found a Lombardy poplar that has been 

 making a vigorous growth for several summers, and is 

 now ten or twelve feet high. Straightway I sat down 

 to look at it leisurely. It was a tree to contemplate. 

 Some thirty years ago my house, my neighbors house, 

 and my neighbor's neighbor's, east, north, and south, 

 had a double row of tall poplars in front of them — tall, 

 straight, dignified, unbending poplars; strict, orthodox 

 Quakers turned to trees. As I sat looking at the taper- 



U 



