nature's calm 



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tensifies both sound and perfume. If 

 you should start in quest of the little 

 screech-owl, that seems to call from 

 the cedars near by, you will need 

 magic boots to take you across the wet 

 meadows before you will find him; and 

 the cloying fragrance that envelops 

 the porch in reality comes from the 

 beds of hyacinths down in the garden. 



The autumn night has few voices, 

 and fewer perfumes. There are no 

 pond frogs, and the hylode's peep is 

 exchanged for the dryer chirp of 

 crickets. The whip-poor-will is gone 

 and the night-hawk also; the owl re- 

 mains persistently and mingles his 

 infrequent hooting with the cries of 

 wild ducks and geese signalling the 

 way to salt water; while the essence 

 of decaying vegetation is the only 

 perfume. 



What wonderful pictures the moon 



