AUGUST DAYS 



down from the sky as sweet as then, 

 but mournful as the patter of autumn 

 leaves. The gay goldfinch has but 

 three notes left of his June song, as he 

 tilts on the latest blossoms and fluffy 

 seeds of the thistles. The meadowlark 

 charms us no more with his long-drawn 

 melody, but with one sharp, insistent 

 note he struts in the meadow stubble 

 or skulks among the tussocks of the 

 pasture and challenges the youthful gun- 

 ner. What an easy shot that even, 

 steady flight offers, and yet it goes on- 

 ward with unfaltering rapid wing-beats, 

 while the gun thunders and the harm- 

 less shot flies behind him. The flicker 

 cackles now no more as when he was a 

 jubilant new comer, with the new-come 

 spring for his comrade, but is silent or 

 only yelps one harsh note as he flashes 

 his golden wings in loping flight from 

 fence-stake to ant-hill. 



The plover chuckles while he lingers 

 at the bounteous feast of grasshoppers, 

 but never pierces the August air with 

 the long wail that proclaimed his spring- 

 time arrival. After nightfall, too, is 

 heard his chuckling call fluttering down 

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