192 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



whose language is too fine for our coarse percep- 

 tions. The vibrations chirps, hums, and clicks 

 can be recorded on delicate instruments, but, just 

 as there are shades and colours at both ends of 

 the spectrum which our eyes cannot perceive, so 

 there are tones running we know not how far be- 

 yond the scale limits which affect our ears. Some 

 creatures utter noises so shrill, so sharp, that it 

 pains our ears to listen to them, and these are 

 probably on the borderland of our sound-world. 



Pipe, little minstrels of the waning year, 



In gentle concert pipe! 

 Pipe the warm noons; the mellow harvest near; 



The apples dropping ripe; 



The sweet sad hush on Nature's gladness laid; 



The sounds through silence heard! 

 Pipe tenderly the passing of the year. 



HARRIET McEwEN KIMBALL. 



I love to hear thine earnest voice, 



Wherever thou art hid, 

 Thou testy little dogmatist, 



Thou pretty Katydid! 

 Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,-- 



Old gentlefolks are they, 

 Thou say*st an undisputed thing 



In such a solemn way. 



OLIVER WENDBLL HOLMES. 



