LEAVES FROM AN APRIL JOURNAL, 35 



only are the minstrels, and, with their capacious air 

 sacks and wide mouths, may be called the cornet 

 and trombone players. 



The pond has given up its' turtles, that at a dis- 

 tance appear like black dabs of mud scattered along 

 the grassy, sunny banks. They are of the painted 

 or swamp species (jshrysemys picta), and the earliest 

 to respond to the sun's warmth, in which they will 

 lie for hours to bask. They are watchful and alert, 

 keeping their necks stretched out and their heads 

 continually uplifted to catch the sight or sound of 

 suspicious objects. In one place where the bank 

 slopes conveniently, nine of them have huddled 

 together, and it is curious to see them turn their 

 golden-spotted heads simultaneously like a squad 

 of well-drilled soldiers, at the command of right or 

 left dress, on hearing an unusual noise. As I rise 

 from my hiding-place they all rush pell-mell down the 

 bank, their shells rattling as they tumble over each 

 other in their frantic haste to escape. A moment 

 after the water is studded with heads, and as they 

 see nothing to alarm them, they almost immediately 

 crawl up and crowd themselves on to the same spot 

 as before, their backs now varnished with wet, that 

 brings out more clearly the yellow borders of the 

 dorsal plates, and the blood-red and black blotches 



