In Apathetic August 41 



with leisure wing, beats and trills in a listless 

 way when perched upon a proje&ing stake 

 of the old fence. It is August, the bird 

 plainly intimates by its manner, and watches 

 me come and go with far more indifference 

 than distrust. Even the activity born of fear 

 is out of place during the last month of 

 summer. The sparrow's few and feeble 

 notes fall into the deep rut into which all 

 August activities have run these many centu- 

 ries, and the listener, with ears as languid as 

 his laggard steps, hears them only with Au- 

 gust indifference. To think that bird music 

 and the rustling of leaves are now akin. 

 Has this sinking to a soulless level aftually 

 taken place ? How far are we at fault ? 

 This same wee sparrow caused a bounding 

 pulse last April. Then there was an eleftric 

 thrill in every trembling note that sounded 

 an invitation to the fields that could not be 

 refused; to April fields with little more 

 than green grass skirting the newly ploughed 

 ground; grass, most meagrely dotted with 

 violets that shrank from every breeze, and 

 now this same bird song rouses no emotion. 

 Who or what turns the current off and 

 leaves us as much dead as alive in August ? 



