of the sun, there are the moon and stars;
instead of the wood-thrush, there is the whippoorwill; instead of
butterflies in the meadows, fire-flies, winged sparks of fire!--who
would have believed it? What kind of cool, deliberate life dwells in
those dewy abodes associated with a spark of fire? So man has fire in
his eyes, or blood, or brain. Instead of singing-birds, the
half-throttled note of a cuckoo flying over, the croaking of frogs, and
the intenser dream of crickets,--but above all, the wonderful trump of
the bull-frog, ringing from Maine to Georgia. The potato-vines stand
upright, the corn grows apace, the bushes loom, the grain-fields are
boundless. On our open river-terraces, once cultivated by the Indian,
they appear to occupy the ground like an army,--their heads nodding in
the breeze. Small trees and shrubs are seen in the midst, overwhelmed as
by an inundation. The shadows of rocks and trees and shrubs and hills
are more conspicuous than the objects themselves. The slightest
irregularities in the ground are revealed by the shadows, and what the
feet find comparatively smooth appears rough and diversified in
consequence. For the same reason the whole landscape is more variegated
and picturesque than by day. The smallest recesses in the rocks are dim
and cavernous; the ferns in the wood appear of tropical size. The
sweet-fern and indigo in overgrown wood-paths wet you with dew up to
your middle. The leaves of the shrub-oak are shining as if a liquid were
flowing over them. The pools seen through the trees are as full of light
as the sky. "The light of the day takes refuge in their bosoms," as the
Purana says of the ocean. All white objects are more remarkable than by
day. A distant cliff looks like a phosphorescent space on a hill-side.
The woods are heavy and dark. Nature slumbers. You see the moonlight
reflected from particular stumps in the recesses of the forest, as if
she selected what to shine on. These small fractions of her light remind
one of the plant called moon-seed,--as if the moon were sowing it in
such places.

In the night the eyes are partly closed, or retire into the head. Other
senses take the lead. The walker is guided as well by the sense of
smell. Every plant and field and forest emits its odor now,--swamp-pink
in the meadow, and tansy in the road; and there is the peculiar dry
scent of corn which has begun to show its tassels. The senses both of
hearing and smelling are more alert. We