Indian Summer 61 



Indian summer is timid. Her efforts to re- 

 clothe the earth with gladness are not free 

 from doubt. Every ray of reviving sunshine 

 is on the alert lest it be attacked by lurking 

 north winds. Few birds in November sing 

 with a May-day confidence, but they do sing, 

 and this passing hour I have seen seventeen 

 different species of birds, and, except in two 

 cases, several individuals of each species, and 

 not for one second has there been silence. 

 At least the crows were to be heard, and 

 what a hearty, whole-souled chatter theirs is ! 

 The subject under discussion by them is sel- 

 dom to be determined, but now they are 

 scolding at a hawk that has sailed by, and it 

 heeds them but little. A mere dip of the 

 wing and this master of flight is above or 

 below its tormentors, or, with a quick move- 

 ment of both wings, it rushes far beyond the 

 crows, and now is heard a wild, triumphant 

 cry that thrills me to the very finger-tips. 

 But not all the world's life is now in the 

 upper air. There are birds as much at 

 home in the bushes as are hawks in the 

 clouds, and I turn to them at their invitation, 

 but as quickly bid them adieu when sounds 

 that smack of novelty fill the air. The genial 



