1 8 8 Next to the Ground 



peep on, whip-po'-wills wheel and shout, Brer 

 Bull-Frog pipes away upon his double bassoon. 

 Sometimes, but rarely, a mocker, nesting late 

 through a mischance to his early building, 

 drops down a snatch of languid melody, but 

 the melody is lost in the noise of creeping and 

 crawling things. As a chorus the summer 

 insects no doubt delight the Wagnerian soul, 

 which bids avaunt such things as melody and 

 harmony. But the simple folk who think 

 music the better for tune and time, find it a 

 trifle wearing, and rejoice when September 

 silences a large part of the choristers. 



Katydids keep on singing through Septem- 

 ber, but the month-note with Joe was the 

 cricket's. He was always very glad, and just 

 a little sorry when he caught the first cheep. 

 It meant many things to him — slacking work, 

 time to rest, and read, and play — the delight 

 of gathering in fruits and nuts. But it meant 

 also that a summer was dead. And Joe loved 

 the summer. Still he could not bewail it when 

 October brought the fox-hunting. Fox-hunt- 

 ing began with night-hunting — thus hounds 

 in full cry, horns singing thin and high and 

 sweet, galloping hoofs and cheery whooping 

 halloos, stood to him for the month and 

 rounded out the year. Of course there were 

 no hard and fast limits. Every noise lapped 

 or lapsed — either going over into another 



