GHOSTS OF THE NORTHEASTER 193 



seemed to be full of soft and gentle jubilation be- 

 cause of this promise. The spaces that have 

 been so quiet of late were full of feathers as 

 they had been in June. Here were robins in- 

 numerable, flitting jerkily about and crying "tut, 

 tut" in a subdued and genial way that was pos- 

 itively ladylike. Partridge woodpeckers flocked 

 in, drolly jollying each other and making much 

 talk, sotto voce. Not one of them cried aloud 

 and though in their humorous antics more than 

 one cried, "flicker, flicker, flicker," there was in it 

 none of the usual horse-laugh tone of the high- 

 hole when he is on a rampage. It was reduced 

 to a gentle whinny that seemed to vie with the 

 boudoir-built notes of the robins. Bluejays were 

 there too, but there was no clamor, just a gentle 

 murmur of subdued tones in the soft, resin- 

 scented twilight. 



In the twilight of twenty-four hours after, 

 all my wood-rimmed world of pasture and 

 meadow was filled with, the eerie presence of the 

 rain. It was not like a gentle shower of summer 

 when the patter of falling drops is like a tinkle of 

 fairy music and showers spell laughter. The 

 coming of a local shower at nightfall is as gentle 

 and seems as homelike as the gathering of the 



