The Bob-o'-Lincolns have come back from their Southern rambles among the
rice, all speckled with gray; and, singing no longer as they did in
spring, they quietly feed upon the ripened reeds that straggle along the
borders of the walls. The larks, with their black and yellow
breastplates, and lifted heads, stand tall upon the close-mown meadow,
and at your first motion of approach spring up, and soar away, and light
again, and with their lifted heads renew the watch. The quails, in
half-grown coveys, saunter hidden through the underbrush that skirts the
wood, and only when you are close upon them, whir away, and drop
scattered under the coverts of the forest.
The robins, long ago deserting the garden neighborhood, feed at eventide
in flocks upon the bloody berries of the sumac; and the soft-eyed
pigeons dispute possession of the feast. The squirrels chatter at
sunrise, and gnaw off the full-grown burrs of the chestnuts. The lazy
blackbirds skip after the loitering cow, watchful of the crickets that
her slow steps start to danger. The crows in companies caw aloft, and
hang high over the carcass of some slaughtered sheep lying ragged upon
the hills.
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