SEPTEMBER. 217 



In the woods and over the meadows alike, the air 

 trembles with the cry of innumerable crickets — if not 

 they, then of insects unknown to me. Single shrill 

 trumpeters are hard to find. Trace up never so closely 

 the sound that issues from a certain bush, when at a given 

 distance the noise ceases. You rest a while, and it begins 

 again ; you move, it stops ; one step more, and it ceases 

 altogether. Scan with all care every leaf, twig, main 

 stem, and very roots of the shrub, if such it was, but you 

 will not find the musician. To crickets we attribute all 

 these late summer sounds not made by birds or frogs, but 

 how far correctly I would that I knew. 



It was long after the first hard frost, and even thin 

 ice had formed once or twice, that I happened along the 

 Crosswicks meadow with a friend, and our talk had been 

 of insect sounds. There was a thrill in the air, at the 

 time ascribable to millions of insects, but not a single 

 utterance could we detect. At last, upon the bank of a 

 ditch, a shriller stridulation could be heard, a sound that 

 could be located. Very cautiously, upon hands and 

 knees, my friend approached the spot. For minutes there 

 was profound silence, and then the sound would start up 

 more distinctly than before. With all the caution of a 

 well-trained setter, my friend drew near, and at last, be- 

 lieving he had marked the precise spot, he sprang forward 

 and seized a clod of meadow mud. He had stalked his 

 game successfully. In his hands was a mole-cricket. So 

 I learned that this creature, too, is an autumn as well as 

 a summer songster. 



Not the first frost nor the second — no, nor a black frost 

 — seals to silence either the tree-toad or the red frog of the 

 woods. They croak spasmodically at all times and sea- 

 sons, but give no hint of the utterance's proper interpre- 

 tation. It may be a croak of thanks for such sweet, life- 

 giving days, or a complaint that the chilly nights have 



