SUMMER IN THE MOUNTAINS 63 
sion-flower vines, as you would know from the won- 
derful flowers that cover them. Think of red earth 
numbering among its weeds the great blue disks of 
the passion-flower. Your garden is a riot of bloom- 
ing weeds, so that you cannot see anything else. 
Everything except the vegetables has grown as 
though possessed. 
Not that all this marvelous growth even of weeds 
is without its difficulties. There are caterpillars. 
Besides these, many other hungry insect guests of 
the summer appear as if on purpose to cut short the 
mad career of the plants — sometimes with ludicrous 
abruptness. But these incursions seem generally to 
take place after the plant has accomplished the 
maturing of seeds enough to weed down the earth 
another year. 
Now from the depths of the woods comes the voice 
of the " moaning dove," as the negroes call it, whose 
frequently uttered coo — 0000 — 00 in the hot, still, 
summer days fills the heart with an indescribable 
sadness and longing, and the wood thrush yet heralds 
and closes the day with its ringing notes. At the 
faintest hint of dawn one hears a clear, soft refrain. 
Like the morning prayer of the Arab that passes 
from tower to tower, the song of the thrush Is caught 
up by bird after bird until the air throbs with song. 
This lasts until the sun is shining, when the ecstatic 
hymn to the dawn ceases. 
Yet silence does not reign when the birds stop, for 
the insect chorus, that began in the spring with weak 
chirps and trills, has swelled to a deafening shout 
