320 



I know many a man like him grouty, fault- 

 finding, storming in the morning; mellow, ex- 

 pansive, delightful in the evening. 



Now crickets crink by day, and the harping 

 of grasshoppers ascends from the fields. Count- 

 less unseen choristers are chanting an ode to 

 fall the air quivers with pulsating sound. Even 

 throughout the October night the viol of the 

 green leaf-cricket is never stilled. Musically the 

 squirrel's bark rings out from the covert, and in- 

 termittingly rises the warbling of assembling 

 blackbirds. Over the flowers swarm crowds of 

 sulphur butterflies, and bee and wasp are ban- 

 queting upon the fallen fruit. Perceptibly the 

 shadows lengthen, as the haze of autumn draws 

 its veil over the latter year. Soon, ah ! why al- 

 way so soon ? the patter of dropping nuts and 

 the rustle of falling leaves. 



Every little while I catch a fragment of a 

 familiar strain voiced by the song-birds on their 

 southward flight as they pause for a day on 

 their migration. From what distant coverts and 

 unexplored forests has not that white-throated 

 sparrow returned, whose silvery tinkle floats 

 from the copse so musically, yet so plaintively, 

 seeming like an echo of departed spring ! 



The yellow-birds, who are busy scattering 

 the milkweed's floss, have a little lisping cry that 



