st a week or two ago the dominant odor among these
was the sticky sweetness of the azalea. It is an odor that
breathes of laziness. Only the hot, damp breath of the swamp
carries it and lulls to languor and to sensuous dreams. Mid-August
is near and though here and there a belated azalea bloom still
glows white in the dusk of the swamp its odor seems to have no
power to ride the wind. Instead a cleaner, finer perfume dances in
rhythmic motion down the dell, swaying in sprightly time to the
under rhythm of the brook's tone, a scent that seems to laugh as
it greets you, yet in no wise losing its inherent, gentle dignity.
The wild clematis is the fairest maiden of the woodland. She, I am
convinced, knows all the brook says and loves to listen to it,
twining her arms about the alder shrubs, bending low 'till her
starry eyes are mirrored in the dimpled surface beneath her, and
always sending this teasing, dainty perfume out upon the breeze
that it may call to her new friends. Long ago the Greeks named the
Clematis Virgin's Power, but our wild variety is more than that.
It is the virgin.

[Illustration: Geese on the Sand Spit at Plymouth]

To smell the perfume of the clematis on the lazy wind and to watch
the myriad people of the brook is joy enough for an August
afternoon. Bird songs come to me from the trees overhead, far and
near, some of them melodious, others songs only by courtesy. Down
stream a red-eyed vireo preaches persistently in an elm top.
Across the pasture I hear the rich voice of an oriole stopping his
caterpillar hunting long enough to trill a round phrase or two
from the apple-tree bough. A flock of chickadees, old and young,
comes through, nervously active in their hunting and with voices
in which there is a tang of the coming autumn. Up in the pines a
blue jay clamors with the same clarion ring in his tones. I do not
know whether the different quality is in the air, or in the birds,
but I am sure that after the first of August is past I could tell it
by the notes of these two even if I had lost all track of the
calendar. A black and white creeping warbler comes head first down a
nearby tree, and then sits right side up a moment to squeak the
half-dozen squeaks which are his best in the way of melody. Like a
fine accompaniment the brook's voice blends with all these, mellows
and supplements them till in the woodland symphony there is no
jarring note. Nature has this wonderful faculty for soothing and
ha