162 OUTDOOR STUDIES 
Wild Ducks went southward overhead, and a 
smaller party returned beneath them, flying 
low and anxiously, as if to pick up some lost 
baggage ; and at last a Loon laughed loud from 
behind a distant island, and it was pleasant to 
people these woods and waters with that wild 
shouting, linking them with Katahdin Lake 
and Amperzand. 
But the later the birds linger in the autumn, 
the more their aspect differs from that of 
spring. In spring they come, jubilant, noisy, 
triumphant, from the South, the winter con- 
quered and the long journey done. In autumn 
they come timidly from the North, and, pausing 
on their anxious retreat, lurk within the fading 
copses and twitter snatches of song as fading. 
Others fly as openly as ever, but gather in 
flocks, as the Robins, most piteous of all birds 
at this season, — thin, faded, ragged, their bold 
note sunk to a feeble quaver, and their manner 
a mere caricature of that inexpressible military 
smartness with which they held up their heads 
in May. 
Yet I cannot really find anything sad even 
in November. When I think of the thrilling 
beauty of the season past, the birds that came 
and went, the insects that took up the choral 
song as the birds grew silent, the procession of 
the flowers, the glory of autumn, — and when 
