THE LIFE OF BIRDS 161 
western shore of our quiet lake, with the low 
sunlight striking almost level across the wooded 
banks, it seemed as if the last hoarded drops of 
summer’s sweetness were being poured over all 
the world. The air was full of quiet sounds. 
Turtles rustled beside the brink and slid into 
the water; cows plashed in the shallows; 
fishes leaped from the placid depths ; a squir- 
rel sobbed and fretted on a neighboring stump; 
a katydid across the lake maintained its hard, 
dry croak ; the crickets chirped pertinaciously, 
but with little, fatigued pauses, as if glad that 
their work was almost done; the grasshoppers 
kept up their continual chant, which seemed 
thoroughly melted and amalgamated into the 
summer, as if it would go on indefinitely, 
though the body of the little creature were 
dried into dust. All this time the birds were 
silent and invisible, as if they would take no 
more part in the symphony of the year. Then, 
seemingly by preconcerted signal, they joined 
in : Crows cawed anxiously afar ; Jays screamed 
in the woods ; a Partridge clucked to its brood, 
like the gurgle of water from a bottle; a-King- 
fisher wound his rattle, more briefly than in 
spring, as if we now knew all about it and the 
merest hint ought to suffice; a Fishhawk 
flapped into the water, with a great, rude 
splash, and then flew heavily away; a flock of 
