JULY 



29 



When other birds are still the screech owls take 

 up the strain, like mourning women their ancient 

 u-lu-lu. Their dismal scream is truly Ben Jonso- 

 nian. Wise midnight hags ! It is no honest and 

 blunt tu-whit tu-who of the poets, but, without 

 jesting, a most solemn graveyard ditty, the mu- 

 tual consolations of suicide lovers remembering 

 the pangs and the delights of supernal love in the 



infernal groves. 



THOREAU: Walden. 



Sit down upon some moss-covered log, or against 

 some small tree, a sapling maple for instance, only 

 let it be something behind which you can look 

 without too much trouble, and keep perfectly still. 

 You will not have to wait long, and you will catch 

 the indefinable speech of softly swaying limbs 

 above or behind you. Wait a moment : there it is 

 again ; the rhythm of lightly bending sprays of 

 hemlock. Look quickly up and you will see the 

 self-same squirrel that was hiding a moment be- 

 fore, making his way through the hemlock-tops, 

 with here and there a running leap, with tail 

 spread out to its fullest width behind for a rudder. 

 SYLVESTEK: Homestead Highways. 



