The Rambles of an Idler 



leaves that hang listlessly, pointing earthward ; 

 the grass that crackles under foot; the folded 

 flowers awaiting the freshness of twilight — all 

 these come to the front when I hear the cicada, 

 our "harvest fly," but not a fly of our harvest- 

 time. They come after the grain is cut and the 

 days have shortened by a full half hour. Like 

 the leaf -cricket and the katy-did, cicadas are in 

 place and accepted as a part of Nature 's meth- 

 ods, but the indigo bird causes some surprise. 

 It is a tropical bird in appearance and likewise 

 in its tastes. When the mercury, is above one 

 hundred in the open fields, it sings its loudest. 

 It rejoices when men sulk and seek the shade, 

 and is apt to be quiet on a rainy day. Myself 

 in the shade, I watched one for exactly one 

 hour. It left its perch only as a car passed and 

 returned to it. In that time it sang without 

 ceasing, escept when on the wing. Truly, a 

 hot-weather bird and from my point of view, a 

 foolish one. 



A little later, thistle finches drifted by. 

 Pretty birds and yet a neighbor could see no 

 more in them than that they were ' ' the color of 

 cup-custards." The curving twitter of their 

 wavy fiight is a hot-weather sound, but is com- 



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