62 Indian Summer 



sunshine has warmed the quiet waters by the 

 wood road, and all the chill has left the 

 broad patches of gray-green sphagnum, and 

 now the chorus of a hundred frogs recalls the 

 like warm days of early April when I wan- 

 der to the meadows. I can scarcely deteft 

 these frogs, however closely I look. They 

 still cling suspiciously close to mother earth, 

 but from their doubting throats rises a thanks- 

 giving that floats away like a misty cloud 

 and dies in the silence of the upper air. 

 Again and again I hear it, and then the 

 trembling leafless twigs and rattle of frost- 

 defying leaves gives warning that the sun- 

 shine has met its old enemy, the wind, and 

 the frogs sink back to their hidden homes. 



Were it not for floating masses of thick, 

 white clouds that shut out the warmth for 

 the moment there would be even more contin- 

 uous sound these late autumn days. Every- 

 thing seems to depend upon it. I have often 

 noticed how quickly a bird will cease to 

 sing the moment it is in the shade and how 

 promptly it resumed its song when the bright 

 sun-rays fell upon it. It is really, I think, a 

 matter of warmth rather than the amount of 

 light, but during uniformly cloudy days there 



