And here comes that veritable ant creeping through the grass at my elbow--now on the root, now on the bark, exploring every crack and crevice in his hurried search. I wonder if the little fellow will ever find what he has been looking for so long. And here’s a friend of his coming down. They stop and wag their antennæ in a moment’s conversation. I wonder what they said. I always _did_ wonder when I watched them do the same thing on this very spot a score of years ago. The soft waving grass whispers about my ears as it did then, and I hear the low trumpet of the nuthatch as he creeps about in the tree o’erhead. Easily may one forget the lapse of time in such a place as this, where every leaf, and twig, and blade of grass conspire to breed forgetfulness of later years. Hark! that shrill tattoo again! The tree-toad. Yes, that same recluse in his mysterious hiding-place, seeking by his tantalizing trill to renew that game of hide-and-seek we left off so long ago--in those eager days when every stick and stone upon the knoll was overturned in my zeal to find his whereabouts. There he goes again! louder and more shrill. But now I realize the effect of time, for I only sit and listen to his oft-repeated call. Formerly that sound was like a galvanic thrill that electrified every nerve and muscle in my physiology. No, I’ll not hunt for you again, my musical young friend; besides, the odds would be against you now, for I know more about tree-toads than I once did, and you wouldn’t see me hunting on the ground as in the olden days. Besides, you’re getting bold; there is no need of hunting, for in that last toot you gave yourself away. Even now my eyes are fixed upon the hole in yonder hollow limb, and I see your tiny form clinging to the rotten wood within the opening. What _would_ I not have given _once_ to have thought of that soggy hole! [Illustration: A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL.]