When night comes down with the long twilight there sounds a strange, almost awesome _quawk_ in the dusk over the fields. It sends a thrill through me, notwithstanding its nightly occurrence all through July and August. It is the passing of a pair of night herons--the black-crowned, I am sure, although this single pair only fly over. Where the birds are numerous they nest in great colonies. It is the wild, eerie _quawk_ that you should hear, a far-off, mysterious, almost uncanny sound that fills the twilight with a vague, untamed something, no matter how bright and civilized the day may have been. XI From the harvest fields comes the sweet whistle of Bob White, the clear, round notes rolling far through the hushed summer noon; in the wood-lot the crows and jays have already begun their cawings and screamings that later on become the dominant notes of the golden autumn. They are not so loud and characteristic now because of the insect orchestra throbbing with a rhythmic beat through the air. So wide, constant, and long-continued is this throbbing note of the insects that by midsummer you almost cease to notice it. But stop and listen--field crickets, katydids, long-horned grasshoppers, snowy tree-crickets: _chwĭ-chwĭ-chwĭ-chwĭ--thrr-r-r-r-r-r-r --crrri-crrri-crrri-crrri--gru-gru-gru-gru-- retreat-retreat-retreat-treat-treat_--like the throbbing of the pulse. XII One can do no more than suggest in a short chapter like this; and all that I am doing here is catching for you some of the still, small voices of _my_ summer. How unlike those of your summer they may be I can easily imagine, for you are in the Pacific Coast, or off on the vast prairies of Canada, or down in the sunny fields and hill-country of the South. I have done enough if I have suggested that you stop and listen; for after all it is having ears which hear _not_ that causes the trouble. Hear the voices that make your summer vocal--the loud and still voices which alike pass unheeded unless we pause to hear. As a lesson in listening, go out some quiet evening, and as the shadows slip softly over the surface of the wood-walled pond, listen to the breathing of the fish as they come to the top, and the splash of the muskrats, or the swirl of the pickerel as he ploughs a furrow through the silence. CHAPTER VII THE SEA-BIRDS’ HOME After my wandering for years among the quiet lanes and along the winding cow-paths of the home fields, my trip to the wild-bird rocks in the Pacific Ocean, as you can imagine, was a thrilling experience. We chartered a little launch at Tillamook, and, after a fight of hours and hours to cross Tillamook Bar at the mouth of the bay, we got out upon the wide Pacific, and steamed down the coast for Three-Arch Rocks, which soon began to show far ahead of us just off the rocky shore.