JUNE 



17 



The fog condenses into fountains and streams of 

 music, as in the strain of the bobolink which I 

 hear, and runs off so. The music of the birds is 

 the tinkling of the rills that flow from it. I can- 

 not see twenty rods. . . . 



There is everywhere dew on the cobwebs, little 

 gossamer veils or scarfs as big as your hand 

 dropped from the shoulders of fairies that danced 

 on the grass the past night. ... I think it was this 

 thin vapor that produced a kind of mirage when I 

 looked over the meadow from the railroad last 

 night toward Trillium wood, giving to the level 

 meadow a certain liquid, sea-like look. 



THOKEAU: Summer. 



18 



Going up Pine Hill, disturbed a partridge and 

 her brood. She ran in dishabille directly to me, 

 within four feet, while her young, not larger than 

 chickens just hatched, dispersed, flying along a 

 foot or two from the ground, just over the bushes, 

 for a rod or more. The mother kept close at hand 

 to attract my attention, and mewed and clucked, 

 and made a noise as when a hawk is in sight. She 

 stepped about and held her head above the bushes, 

 and clucked just like a hen. What a remarkable 

 instinct, that which keeps the young so silent, and 

 prevents their peeping and betraying themselves 1 

 This wild bird will run almost any risk to save her 

 young. 



THORKAU: Summer. 



