AN OCTOBER DIARY. 888 



must know of man-proof and dog-proof swamps, wherein 

 they take shelter when pursued. I surely hope so ; for 

 next April the shrill "Bob White," whistled from the 

 angles of the weed-grown worm-fences, is a part of the 

 morning anthem I would not like to miss. 



The air to-night was full of moisture, but no rain fell. 

 The moon could be followed through the misty clouds, 

 but not actually seen. Her whereabouts looked like the 

 reflection of a lire, far off in the cloud-world. Stranger 

 than all, the air was full, too, of the hum of life, pre- 

 sumably insect-life. How I wish I could identify the 

 endless buzzes of an autumn or summer evening ! I 

 have often gathered a roomful of such creatures as a 

 light would attract, but not one of them would sing in 

 my sight or hearing. These supposed insect voices 

 heard to-night seemed to come from everywhere, but 

 from no point near at hand. They are all from a dis- 

 tance, and, go in any direction whatever, the sounds 

 come from all the others. You can never approach 

 them. It is as easy to corner the Will-o'-the-wisp. 



October 29. — Typical autumn weather again ! I know 

 not what it is, perhaps ozone, but in the atmosphere of 

 this morning there was an abundance of " snap." One 

 feels like running, rather than walking. Gates are not 

 sought, nor fences clambered over. We leap them. 

 Although so many leaves have fallen, it would seem as 

 if they were only the plain browns that are on the 

 ground. The green, scarlet, and golden remain on the 

 trees. I lingered long over a clump of birches. Their 



