IF it be true that the birds which haunt the babbling brooks sing only of rippling waters, echo the bell-like trickling of tiny streams, and trill the murmuring of the fretted tide, then the wood-peewee has caught the languor of the hot high noon, and his note, when it fills the woods, even before the sun climbs the distant hills, is an evidence of what the day will be. For years I have held the long-drawn notes of this fly-catcher to be so far prophetic. To-day, save the red-eye, that, too, braves the noontide, all other birds were silent before the dew had gone from the grass, and the doleful peewee was our perpetual reminder of what was coming. Its song was so languid, so full of longing, that the breeze seemed to lose its freshness, as though commanded to be sad and take on a funereal pace, leaving all thought of May-day merriment behind it.

But let me say where I happen to be, and why. As the sun set yesterday, our wanderings ceased, and, by happy chance, M. and I camped on Windy Bush. What a grandly suggestive name for hot-weather days! The tent ready, the supper cooked, the camp-fire freshened, we were ready for a moonlight stroll, and by its happily uncertain light, that leaves the imagination to build what it chooses of that our prosy eyes but dimly see, we listened to the charming chatter of the oldest inhabitant; learned when and by whom the oldest houses were built; the strange adventures of the “originals," as he called the first settlers; what was still current of the Indians. He pointed out the mineral spring, a cave dug by the Indians in the hill-side, and showed us where red men were buried; told so much, indeed, that we felt as if on Windy Bush had always been our home, — brought us in touch with Nature, ever kind fortune's goodliest gift. Many an old man of an old neighborhood is an uncut gem of humanity. He had, at least, not rounded out fourscore years for nothing; and when at last the wordy interview was over, and I had sought the shelter of my tent, there was many a grain of good wheat to be sifted from his abundant chaff.

Morning broke beautifully over the ringing woods, and as the birds discovered us we were greeted not as new-comers, but as old friends. Whether thrush or grosbeak, lark or robin sounded the louder or the sweeter welcome, it matters not; but let the future wanderer rest assured bird-music is best heard when we are but half awake. Then its spirit only is sifted into our senses: the pure wine without a trace of lees.

Where nothing comes amiss, be it botany or history, a matter of birds and beasts, or the finding of a flint arrow, it is safe to start off in any direction; and the initial tramp was towards the quaint old house, of which we had heard much. It was but a little two-story stone dwelling, framed of huge oak logs, and the interspaces filled with broken stone and held by mortar as white as the driven snow. At the chimney or fireplace end the masonry was solid. All was weed-grown and forsaken about the one-time yard, but I noticed a straggling — yes, struggling — rose-bush clung to a corner, and a single half-opened bud showed timidly above the tall grass. How like, I thought, many a man who has lost heart, living hopelessly among unsympathetic folks, a very prince in the realm of beggardom.

Turning a great iron key that threaded the maze of a ponderous lock and drew back its bolt, I entered this ancient dwelling, now deserted, but straightway peopled with the spirits of that hardy folk who knew the Indians as neighbors. The cavernous fireplace, now cold and clammy, — fit home for salamanders that scuttled across the hearth-stones, — grew quickly bright with the flickering flames that of old leapt from the back log. The dim outline of a high-backed settle filled the corner; the trusty rifle leaned against the wall. From the crane swung the steaming kettle: there lacked nothing of a happy old-time colonial home. The wind that moaned through the huge chimney and rattled the loose shingles of the roof was not a sobering sound; fancy freed it of all melancholy. The wild tales of woodland adventure and hair-breadth escape were heard again, — for an hour I lived in an earlier century.

It is well that the scene should shift suddenly. It was but a step to the deep woods, and both M. and myself aimed for the time to live a free wild life, in touch only with uncontaminated Nature. Birds sang almost without a pause, yet the woods were silent. The brief intermissions were so deadly still that about us we had not sound, but silence framed in song. Yet this is Windy Bush, and suggestive of tumult rather than peace. It was the trees' holiday, I concluded, for no rude blasts troubled them, and the fitful breezes were considerate. The truth is, they happened to pass by high overhead, as the masses of white clouds clearly showed. When, particularly in winter, these blasts of cruel air swept across the hill, it is not strange that every tree shivered and the dangling dead leaves rattled, and suggested all manner of uncanny thoughts to the Indians. Indeed, they claimed that summer or winter the wind never ceased, and hence the name that still clings to it. Later, these rustling leaves made fainthearted folk a little timid, or, as the octogenarian put it, “better minded to go 'round the hill o* nights than go over it." I am happy to say I slept unguarded upon its summit, nor came to grief. My only sorrow was that of leaving so soon. The Indians were right about the wind, perhaps, but it was not always the trees that were bowed before it; to-day it was the clouds.

The wood-peewee was right in his prognostics; it was torrid at noontide. The cows in the distant pastures gathered in the shade of scattered trees, and in many ways it is well to take our cue from other forms of life. Many a despised creature, even a worm, can give us useful hints, if we but heed their methods. A nap at mid- day may prove more refreshing than a night-long slumber. I was painfully envious of the far-off cows until, like them, I curled in the shade of a hill-side chestnut, and then how trivial a matter was the blazing sun! Whether a-dreaming or awake, it matters not, but the distant landscape was a source of joy. Bowman's Hill and many a mile of intervening meadow spread out before me, and what a laden table at which one's soul might feast! We may envy the eagle his all-searching gaze, but are consoled by feeling we can reach, in thought, beyond the horizon. Whether hill or dale, it is but the bird's resting-place; but within the same bounds is a home for more than a mere body. Weary now, I halt in the restoring shade of a splendid chestnut and wander, the while, among the far-off hills.

The looked-for shower came far sooner than expected, and my first intimation of its approach was the threatening peal of thunder that echoed down the valley, and seemed rather to gather strength, than die, as it had reached the hills beyond. Such thunder, without a hint of lightning's destructive touch in its tones, is one of Nature's noblest melodies. It does not awe the birds that sang merrily in reply to many a peal. But the sudden downpour silenced them, and, like myself, they sought shelter. Doubtless they have in mind many a safe retreat, for they suffer from wet feathers at times as much or more than we do by wet clothing. I found none with bedraggled feathers, however, when the rain was over, and, indeed, was more entertained by a huge slug that slipped slimily over a prostrate log than by the robins and thrushes that made every nook and corner of the forest ring with their rejoicings. This slug watched me curiously with its absurd telescopic eyes, which continuously collapsed when I became too demonstrative. But its curiosity was unbounded, and quickly reappeared the slender stalks with eyes perched on their tips. I teased his slug-ship for a long time, and finally made bold to touch one of the eye-stalks. Offended beyond measure, it moved off with its head tucked under its breast, and took a back track gracefully, turning at a sharp angle, and made of its body for a time a squeezed-up letter V. Then I left the poor creature in peace. The glistening trail of slime that it left behind it, by which alone I was to remember the meeting, was not pleasing; but why complain? Half the people we meet leave as uncanny a track on the tablet of our memory.

By the camp-fire, not long after, I was disposed to rebel at the thought of leaving so sweet a spot; but there was the great beyond through which we proposed to ramble, and I soon returned to common sense. How easy it is to be foolish! Whether paradise or purgatory depends in great measure upon ourselves; but looking across the valley now, I cannot believe the hills beyond hold in store for us anything better than these wood-clad reaches of old Windy Bush.