64 THE CAROLINA MOUNTAINS 
that ascends as the sun goes down, stops suddenly 
before dawn, only to be renewed, though less vocif- 
erously, by other insects during the day. Cicadas 
spring their rattles and whirr past in startling prox- 
imity to your face, and when the "seventeen-year 
locusts" swarm out on Tryon Mountain, you must 
needs shout into the ear of your companion as you 
drive through the forest vibrating with their shrill 
voices. It is almost as noisy as a storm at sea, and it 
is hard to understand how these hordes happen to 
have their seventeen-yearly anniversary so often. 
But excepting for the locusts on Tryon Mountain, 
the turmoil of the day is nothing to that of the night. 
One wonders who they all are, those strident-voiced 
myriads hidden under the leaves. Above everything 
else rise the insistent cries of the katydids, while out 
of the woods come all kinds of purrings, and squeak- 
ings, and trillings. Those little meteors that trail 
through the bushes are fireflys, as are also the rap- 
idly moving constellations of stars that gem the 
treetops. 
Always in summer a voice rings out as the sun 
goes down, and continues chanting its wild refrain 
all night and every night, until stilled by the cold of 
winter. Whip-poor-will ! whip-poor-will I — some- 
times you will hear half a dozen of these tireless 
vocalists performing at once. 
Another voice of the night is the soft, tremulous 
call that comes down the aisles of the forest when 
the sun sets and the little downy owls come forth. 
The owl, it is said, puts the night to evil uses, catch- 
