Indian Summer 63 



is less disposition to sing than when the 

 weather is bright. In short, take the year 

 through, it is a matter of silence in shadows 

 and melody in the sunlit air. While still 

 lingering by the wayside pool and watching 

 a slight ripple on the still surface, a turtle 

 popped its head above the water and gazed 

 about in every direction. I made no motion 

 and so passed for a stick, one of the many 

 hundreds about me. What it thought of the 

 outlook is a matter of doubt in my mind, but 

 following so soon after the chorus of re- 

 awakened frogs, it doubtless wondered what 

 all that noise was about, and looked at the 

 world with its own eyes, to determine the 

 truth of the matter. Perhaps it set the frogs 

 down as liars, for the turtle quickly disap- 

 peared, and, though I waited long, saw it 

 no more. 



It was a short-long journey that I went to- 

 day short as the crow flies ; long if meas- 

 ured by its wealth of suggestiveness. This 

 swamp, that I would covered thousands of 

 acres, is but a matter of a few hundred, and 

 these will soon be drained, deforested, and 

 despoiled of all its nature-given glory. It is 

 an idle fancy to suppose it foreknows its 



