An August Night 



bower, but the " dids " and the "didn'ts" 

 seem to tire of their dispute along 

 towards two in the morning. I sup- 

 pose they get hot boxes by that 

 time, and have to stop until through 

 the subtle processes of nature enough 

 synovial fluid is evolved to enable 

 them to resume the friction on the 

 ensuing evening. Not so with the 

 trillers in the trees, for when at four 

 I woke and the moon was turning pale 

 in the western mists the air was 

 vibrant still with cricketarian piping, 

 just as when I fell asleep. The male 

 does the work, and apparently just 

 winds up some internal spring and 

 goes about his nightly business, what- 

 ever that may be, and the little wings 

 keep going until broad daylight, grind- 

 ing out sometimes, they say, as high as 

 one hundred notes per minute. 



At four-thirty — sun-time, not con- 

 gressional — they still had the air all to 

 themselves. A stiff morning breeze 

 presently began to blow, and set the 



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