Data AUDIO B OWN, 3B OTL LEAP ON 2 
Summer in the Country 
By BERTHA E. JAQUES 
Following are some further selections from ‘A Country Quest,” by 
Mrs. Jaques, describing June at their summer home in Michigan. 
JUNE 
Do you know what the sleepy sounds of the country are? I will tell 
you some of them; a blue bottle fly buzzing against the screen; a mourning 
dove’s coo down in the woods; the moo of a distant cow and the tinkle of 
her bell; the gee-whoa-haw of the plowman over the hill; the crowing of a 
reoster in the middle of a warm afternoon. 
In August I will tell you of the hottest sound there is. Just now, 
Somnolent One, I want to give you some of the joyful sounds of these rare 
June days. First of all is the redbird’s ringing ‘‘Whatcheer’—enough to 
make a mummy stir in its wrappings. The piercingly sweet early call of 
the meadowlark. The gay “kwonk-a-ree” of the red-winged blackbird in 
his flight over the marshes. In spite of all the derogatory things said of 
him, I find inspiration in a certain vigorous call of the blue jay which 
reminds me of Brunnhilde in Die Walkure. Bob-white is cordial, cheerful 
and insistent, but does not want to be caught at it. The white-throated 
sparrow seems to be an absent-minded bird and frequently leaves his notes 
suspended in air while he investigates something on the under side of a leaf. 
The call of the flicker and red-headed woodpecker is not so joyful as it 
is warlike and stirring. Topping a flagpole across the read is a tin ball as 
large as a bushel basket, though it looks no bigger than a baseball from 
here. For two years this has been the signal station and lookout post for 
red-heads and flickers. They drum their rat-a-tat-tat upon it just as 
assiducusly now as when first discovered. Probably not one despairs of 
penetrating the obviously hollow ball in the hope of finding a vast store of 
meucacies... * *>* * 
This has been a glorious morning for the birds, showing they are not 
depressed by the continuous muttering of thunder and the quiet grayness 
that precedes a rain. The brown thrashers have the field both as to numbers 
and song; it must be a coming out party for several families. The young 
ones flirted and played as only young things can, while the fathers made 
the welkin ring—whatever that is. 
I began to think the brown thrasher might deserve the worm for the 
most glorious singer when my catbird softly alighted on a branch of the 
wild cherry tree near me and seemed to say: ‘Don’t be misled by the 
dramatic performances of the thrasher—my only rival. His song is throaty 
and he sings with more vigor than taste. You have heard the metallic and 
shuttle-like song of the indigo bunting; the oriole has whistled his char- 
acteristic and dogmatic remark; the robins have called for rain that anyone 
can see is coming; the white-throat has uttered his sweet note; the wocd 
pewee has told you about his ‘‘mis-a-ree’”; the fiicker and redhead have 
called each other names from the top of the telegraph pole; the redbird has 
urged you to “cheerup” and the wren has twittered unceasingly. Now lsten 
