Bees and Buckwheat 199 



then of a long summer to come is now but a 

 single note of regret that the promised summer 

 is a thing of the past. It is the Alpha and 

 Omega of the year's song-tide. Not that we 

 have no other songs when the reed-bird has 

 flown to the Carolina rice-fields. While I 

 write, a song-sparrow is reciting reminis- 

 cences of last May, and there will be ringing 

 rounds of bird-rejoicing from November to 

 April. Still, the initial thought holds good : 

 bobolink in May, and only a reed-bird in 

 August ; the beginning and the end ; the her- 

 ald of Summer's birth and her chief mourner ; 

 Alpha and Omega. 



Where the brook that drains the meadow 

 finds its way, the little rail-birds have con- 

 gregated. Many spent their summer along 

 the Musketaquid, where Thoreau spent his 

 best days, but they bring no message from 

 New England. They very seldom speak 

 above a whisper. Not so the king-rail. He 

 chatters as he threads the marsh and dodges 

 the great blue harrier that sweeps above the 

 cat-tail grasses and has to be content with a 

 sparrow or a mouse. 



These late August days are too often over- 

 fall, arid one sees and hears too much, — so 



