9 6 



PASTORAL DAYS. 



And here comes that veritable ant creeping through the grass at my 

 elbow — now on the root, now on the bark, exploring every crack and 

 crevice in his hurried search. /->-, I wonder if the little fellow will 



ever find what he has been 



looking for so long. 



And here's 

 a friend of his coming clown. They 

 stop and wag their antennae in a mo- 

 ment's conversation. I wonder what 



AN OCTOBER DAY. 



they said. I always did wonder when I watched 

 them do the same thing on this very spot a score 

 of years ago. The soft waving grass whispers 

 ^"IstS about my ears as it did then, and I hear the low 

 v trumpet of the nuthatch as he creeps about in the 

 tree o'erhead. Easily may one forget the lapse of time in 

 such a place as this, where every leaf, and twig, and blade 

 of grass conspire to breed forgetfulness of later years. 

 Hark ! that shrill tattoo again ! The tree-toad. Yes, that 

 same recluse in his mysterious hiding-place, seeking by his 

 " 4 tantalizing trill to renew that game of hide-and-seek we left 

 off so long ago — in those eager clays when every stick and stone upon 

 the knoll was overturned in my zeal to find his whereabouts. There he 

 goes again ! louder and more shrill. But now I realize the effect of time, 

 for I only sit and listen to his oft-repeated call. Formerly that sound 

 was like a galvanic thrill that electrified every nerve and muscle in my 

 physiology. No, I'll not hunt for you again, my musical young friend; 

 besides, the odds would be against you now, for I know more about tree- 



