180 
Most summer sounds are soft and subdued. 
The dense foliage at that season deadens 
and tones down the murmur of winds and 
waters, the birds are less vociferous, and all 
Nature seems inclined to be indolent and 
drowsy. The quiet is occasionally broken by 
the muffled thunder of wheels on the wooden 
bridge or the rumble of a flock of sheep stam- 
peded in the dry pasture. In the edge of the 
woods the young crow is taking his first lessons 
in articulation, and from the top of the tall elm 
the veery sings his soft summer song, which 
has a spiral sound, and is as sweet as if bored 
in sandal wood with a golden gimlet. The 
flies buzz idly about, and the lazy drone of the 
locust slowly runs down as if he were about 
going to sleep. Almost the only sign of activ- 
ity is the distant monotony of the mowing ma- 
chine, now borne strong and clear on the breath 
of the breeze, now dying away as if it had gone 
behind a hill or down into a valley. The sur- 
face of the river is smooth as a mirror, and the 
silence is broken only by the skurry of a fish 
among the lily-pads or the plunge of a turtle 
that has been basking in the sun. The voice 
of the little stream that gurgles through the 
meadow is well nigh hushed by the tall grasses 
through and under which it finds its way. 
There is fulness of life everywhere, but, next to 
the silence of midwinter, the late summer days 
are the quietest of the year. 
With the coming of the early frosts there is 
another period of bustle and animation. The 
birds congregate and gossip concerning the 
long journey they are about totake. From the 
groves of hickory and oak comes the bark of 
the gray squirrel and the ‘“‘snickering” of his 
red relative. As we walk through the fields 
early in the morning there is a musical crash 
of the thin ice under our feet where each little 
NATURE'S REALM. 
hollow or hoof mark in the mud of yesterday 
has been sealed over, as the housewife seals her 
glasses of jelly with paper. From the secure 
regions of the upper air the wild geese send 
down their discordant message, and far within 
the wood reverberates the mysterious drum of 
the partridge. We have all heard this martial 
performance, but the partridge plays to very 
select audiences, and he who would see the 
artist in the act must take a reserved seat and 
wait till he appears. 
One who spends the night alone in the forest 
will gradually become aware that the air is palpi- 
tating with sound. The leaves are rustled by 
tiny feet, and there are lilliputian squeaks and 
gibberings. The wood fairies are out and en- 
joying themselves. The mice emerge from 
their soft nests under the rocks, the flying 
squirrels forsake their dormitory in the decayed 
stub, and the uncanny bat-flies about on erratic 
wing. All the timid inhabitants of the woods. 
are taking advantage of the darkness to ply 
their trades, and have their frolics. But even 
now their enemies are not asleep. The owls. 
are on their noiseless rounds; the foxes and the 
weasels are out foraging, poking their sharp 
noses into every nook and cranny, following 
the trail of the chipmunk and deermouse, and. 
sniffing the air with murder in their thoughts. 
There is a scurry among the leaves, a terrified 
squeak, and a midnight tragedy has been 
enacted. 
Go where we will, there is no such thing as. 
absolute silence. ‘Beyond all accountable 
sound there is always the shadow of a sound,” 
and if our dull sense of hearing is incapable ot 
catching the music of the spheres, we may still 
derive untold pleasure from learning to listen 
well. A whispered message may be more 
precious than one shouted from the housetops- 

