Ever Charming, Ever New,
When Will The Landscape Tire The View?
We answered his question by saying, "Never." A quiet seemed to
creep over the hot landscape.
The great chestnut and basswood
trees seemed to be taking their noon rest; only the buzzing of
myriads of bees filled the air with their sound; a robin settled
near us with open mouth and drooping wings; the maple leaves
hung limp and silent, showing their silver linings; only the
warbling vireo sang her medley among its branches. The hills
shimmered. Not far away were masses of dark clouds which
stretched across a valley and seemed to rest on the opposite
hills and sink in a dense mass into a farther valley. Presently
we saw a white sheet of rain drifting rapidly toward us. We drew
out to the side of the road beneath some small hickory trees and
quickly put on the curtains and proceeded to eat our luncheon
during the storm. The rain came down in torrents, but was soon
over. We unfastened the curtains that we might have a better
view of the birds that emerged from their leafy coverts and sang
all about us. The noon sun was lighting up a million gleaming
tears that hung to the leaves, so quiet was the atmosphere. The
storm was still rumbling not far away across the hills, where a
lovely bow spanned the sky. Vapors hung just above the tree
tops, seething like smoke from hidden chimneys.
How the birds rejoiced after the shower! Two cardinals woke the
echoes with their wild, ringing calls. Indigo buntings, using
the telephone wires as a point from which to start messages,
sent them out in all directions. These, if not so important as
those of men, were more pleasant to hear. The summery call of a
turtle dove came dreamily through the forest; while nearer,
towhees filled the place with their "fine explosive trills."
Down in the ravine chats were uttering their strange notes, so
weird that they won from the Indians the name of "ghost bird."
Vireos and tanagers vied with each other in persistent singing.
The vireo sang more constantly but the notes of the tanager were
more wild and possessed greater resonance of tone. The call of a
quail came clear and sweet from a distant wheat field and, like
a glorious soloist, Ohio's finest songster, the woodthrush, was
casting her "liquid pearls" on the air.
We were loathe to leave a song carnival so fine, but Kinkaid
Spring and Rockyfork Caves were some distance away and the
recent rains made the dirt read very slippery and traveling
uncertain. We had to climb a three-mile hill. The road had
innumerable turns, and in many places ran very near the edge of
steep ravines, which were often covered with almost virgin
forest. There may have been some elasticity in the auto, but we
didn't seem to notice it. It seemed, in spite of shock
absorbers, a perfect conductor, and the shock it received in
passing over deep ruts and rough boulders was immediately
communicated to the lowest vertebra of our spines to pass
instantly along all the others, discharging itself in our teeth.
One of the party, not having traveled over many rough roads,
seemed to be enjoying the scenery in much the same manner as a
drowning man might enjoy the Rhine.
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