in; the
violet and some of the other spring flowers. But the signs of the
passing of the summer are everywhere in evidence. Dense, white morning
mists--the September mists--lie in the valleys and yield but slowly
to the shafts of the rising sun. Flocks of feathered voyagers are
shaping their course toward the south. Gold and crimson leaves grow
more numerous along the lanes and in the woods. Antares, Altair and
Vega, with the summer constellations, are passing farther towards the
west, while before bedtime Fomalhaut may be seen at the mouth of the
Southern Fish in the southeast and the creamy white Capella is leading
up Auriga in the northeast. Between them, just over the eastern rim of
the world, appear the Pleiades, their "sweet influences" in keeping
with the season. The summer is passing, but not in sadness. Some of
the greatest of its glories are reserved for these last days.

* * * * *

Now the cicada, forgetting to give his winding salute at sundown, has
almost dropped out of the insect orchestra and the katydid, too, is
heard less often. The rest of the screeching musicians vary the volume
and the speed of their music in approximate ratio to the temperature.
In the warm evening they saw and rub away at presto time as if they
were determined to get to the end of the selection before the curtain
goes up for the moonlight scene; but they slacken to moderato when the
nights grow cooler, slower, always slower, and fainter as the chill
air creeps through the woods. When the north wind filters coldly
through the trees their music thins and dims till it sounds pathetic
as the tick of a tall clock in a lonely house at night. But it warms
up again with the sunshine next day, keeping time and tune with the
varying moods of the final days of the summer. When a dreamy, hazy day
is followed by a mellow night and little patches of white moonlight
lie dreaming beneath the trees, the crickets have a lullaby that comes
in rhythmic beats, as if they watched the moonlight breathe and rocked
the world to sleep.

* * * * *

Comforting and soothing as the touch of a loved hand on a fevered brow
come the first cooling breezes of September after the fierce white
heat of August. Sweeter than music is the sound of the wind, as it
passes through the woods, welcomed by millions of waving branches and
dancing leaves. It brings the call of the quail, the scream of the
jay, the