f put into a box he backs up into the darkest corner,
brings his beautiful flat tail between his four legs and up over his
nose and his eyes. Rolled up lengthwise in this ball he spends the
day; but when evening comes he is active enough. If kept for any
length of time he makes a very docile pet and will beg permission to
sleep in your pocket. But it is better to give him his freedom, and
see him scamper up one tree and "fly" to another. As he springs he
spreads out the whitish membranes along each side, holds his flat tail
rigid, quivering. Thus he goes down, parachute fashion, on an inclined
plane. Just before he gets to the tree trunk which is his objective
point, he makes momentum aid his muscles in the accomplishment of an
upward curve.

* * * * *

Crickets and katydids droned and fiddled all night, and when the
katydids quit at daybreak, other grasshoppers and cicadas were ready
to take their places in the screechy orchestra. Night and day they
shrill their ceaseless music. It is all masculine love music, as much
an expression of their tender feelings towards listening maidens, as
the old troubadour songs to fair ladies or as the exquisite song of
the rose-breasted grosbeak is to his brown-garbed spouse in May and
June. Late in July it began with the short rasps and screeches of tiny
hoppers flitting in the grass; the katydid began to tune up on the
evening of July 29. Then the long-legged conductor waved his baton and
the orchestra was off. It started moderato, but quickly increased to
an allegro, and sometimes it is almost presto. For the first two weeks
in August new fiddlers were constantly being added, and now there are
enough to fill every band stand all through the woods. The noise at
night is almost ear-splitting. The old preacher was right about it.
There are times when the grasshopper is a burden. At the hour of
sunset the cicada winds his rattle most joyously, subsiding into
silence as darkness comes and making way for the katydid.

The screechy orchestra is a poor substitute for the grand birds'
concerts of June and July. For the birds, August is a month of
silence. Except for an occasional solo, nearly all the birds are
silent, moulting and moping in the thickets. If you steal into the
thicket you may find the thrushes and the thrashers feeding on the
ground. Once in a while one of them shows himself in the morning or
the evening, but not often. Nesting done, the brow