JULY 



The wood thrush's is no opera music ; it is not so 

 much the composition as the strain, the tone that 

 interests us, cool bars of melody from the atmos- 

 phere of everlasting morning or evening. ... In 

 the pewee's note there is some sultriness, but in the 

 thrush's, though heard at noon, there is the liquid 

 coolness of things drawn from the bottom of 

 springs. The thrush's alone declares the immortal 

 wealth and vigor that is in the forest. . . . Most 

 other birds sing, from the level of my ordinary 

 cheerful hours, a carol, but this bird never fails to 

 speak to me out of an ether purer than that I 

 breathe, of immortal vigor and beauty. 



THOKEAU: Summer. 

 10 



In one somewhat muddier place close to the 

 shore I came upon an old pout cruising with her 

 young. She dashed away at my approach, but the 

 fry remained. . . . They were constantly moving 

 about in a somewhat circular or rather lenticular 

 school, about fifteen or eighteen inches in diame- 

 ter, and I estimated that there were at least one 

 thousand of them. Presently the old pout came 

 back and took the lead of her brood, which fol- 

 lowed her, or rather gathered about her, like chick- 

 ens about a hen; but this mother had so many 

 children she did n't know what to do. Her mater- 

 nal yearnings must be on a great scale. 



THOREAU: Summer. 



