THERE is many a pat phrase that comes to mind, particularly when, on pleasure bent, we stand at the portal of the out-door world. It matters not whether we go to meet the sun upon the upland lawn, or thread the misty by-paths of a lonely valley, the initial thought will come with effort on our part, and, what is of greater significance, will color all thought throughout the day. When I reached the river this morning, and took a comprehensive glance of the world about me, this thought was uppermost: a cool, gray day. And although it is yet early in August, every moment has been tempered with the breath of autumn; every outlook that of fulfilment.

It was a cool, gray day, and with nothing so prominent as to suggest an outing. No nook or corner had put its best foot forward and beckoned to the doubting pedestrian to come. The fringe of forest that hems in the river was asleep. The unresting tide flowed by in sullen silence and passed the rocky shore without a ripple. The purple spires of the pickerel-weed scarcely bent to the current of the out-flowing water, and the tangled ribbon-grass that at each succeeding moment came more and more to view, moved so slowly that even it seemed weary. Silence rested upon the scene. The summer's work was finished, the harvest ended, the whole earth rested. It was fitting rather to pause and count our gains and losses than consider some new venture. Aught that savored of real labor was repugnant this cool, gray day. It was with an effort that I roused myself to contemplate a sleeping beauty. There was an unbroken gray sky above; a mile-wide expanse of gray water before me, and banks of pearly mist shut out all but the nearest trees on the main shore. As to an island opposite, there was that dreamy indistinctness about it that made it possible to fancy all things as one voyaged thither. But an island is but a main shore on a smaller scale, and why hasten towards it? The river is, at least, hospitably inclined to-day, and not so much as hints at buffeting my frail canoe, and in it, if not so swiftly, almost as airily as the swallows, I drift with the tide.

The swallows to-day are not the aerial creatures of early summer. They fly so closely to the water now their wings seem actually to touch it. I see that they snap from the surface such insects as have fallen, as well as those spidery imps that run between the ripples. Except these, I can see no insect life whatever, and yet hundreds of tireless swallows are passing to and fro incessantly. Their activity demands an enormous supply of food, and, were it not here, the birds would not be. Sitting so closely to the water's surface, there is every chance to observe closely whatsoever is transpiring, and how different is the outlook from the ordinary point of view, as one sits bolt upright in an ordinary boat! Nothing now is clearly familiar; while to bring about still greater novelty, it is necessary only to bend over quite to the water, and so reverse the relative positions of earth and sky. It is a quick way of transporting yourself to another country; but do not try this when in a canoe; it may lead to other conditions being reversed. But the swallows: they are marvellously tame. A more innocent and harmless bird cannot be imagined, and yet I confess, to sit helpless in a canoe and have them come directly towards your eyes with the speed of a bullet is not a pleasant sensation. We do not like to be forced to wink or to toss the head suddenly to one side. There may have been no danger of an accident; there was none; but I felt the wind from their wings as they suddenly turned aside and heard that whish! that means mischief when a collision does occur.

Later, there was another feature of bird-life over the river and high overhead that spoke more eloquently of the dying summer than did the skimming swallows: the blackbirds were already flocking. In little companies of a dozen or more the grakles flew by from shore to shore, and then a great gathering of red-wings went hurrying westward. Not merely passing from near-by point to point, but journeying to some new meadows they had in mind, or wending their way to another river valley. A flock of blackbirds is a familiar feature of an October landscape, but in August it is sadly suggestive. For the birds at least there has come a change of season, and the merry nesting days, the flowery upland thickets, the heyday of grassy meadows when the year was young, — all is now but a memory.

I would that those who for some vague reason or through ignorance deny birds a language in the ordinary acceptation of that term, and who deny them everything else that cannot be squeezed into the cramped category of instinct, could witness the initial steps of the formation of a flock. The scales would drop from their eyes. One of the most wonderful of all the common incidents of bird-life is when two small flocks merge into one. Having met, they discuss the matter. Sometimes they unite, and when so, upon signal, every individual rises into the air at the same moment, there is a brief circling about and their ranks are closed. It is a beautiful manoeuvre. But it sometimes happens that the small flocks, or one of them, prefers to preserve its autonomy, at least for the present. There may be much discussion, but no quarrelling, and the matter is soon dropped. I have used the word “discussion," for this alone correctly describes what transpires in such cases. To use any other word, unless a synonyme, or to offer any other explanation is to mislead.

To take to a canoe is to become aquatic. With the wild life of the waters at your elbow, you become one with it, and the little fishes in the weedy shallows accept you as a companion now, when they would dart in terror were the shadow of your whole body to darken the water. There is an advantage over being in an ordinary boat, or else it was these fishes were phenomenally tame. Diminutive billfish or silvery gars were sporting in the little pool-like shadows above half-emerged leaves, and seemed to be feeding even when the water was clear as crystal. The microscope must be brought into play to tell the whole story. Small as they were, these billfish had much of the apparent spirit of fun that animates the adult. They darted off at a tangent in the most eccentric manner, and then, demurely returning to some favorite spot, would vary the play by spinning around in a brief circle, precisely as a kitten chases its own tail. With minnows proper and the young of other fishes they associated to some extent, but not so as to suggest companionship.

From the shallow waters to the shore; from the canoe to the dry land; a putting aside of the paddle and taking up the pedestrian's staff. I will not admit that the change was pleasant; enough that it was necessary. But no landsman, when in the country, should be melancholy. Here on the island was green grass, enriched with the purple and gold of mimulus and hypericum; and how strangely beautiful were the spires of bloom of the pontederias, now nearly a foot beneath the surface of the water! It was a flower-garden for the fishes, and when their silvery sides flashed in the light among the purple blossoms of the pickerelweed, there was then and there a brightness that contrasted with the cool, gray day of the outer world. But before wandering long, I find color, and in such abundance and brilliancy that the day needs nothing else to warm the cool shadows. Along the water's edge, where other growths hold back that they may shed their glory freely, stand in unbroken ranks the lusty stalks of lobelia, weighted with scarlet banners. Even the fresh young summer had nothing to equal this, and here present joy holds us rather than sober retrospection. All effort seems to have fallen short, however bright the season's earlier blossoms. Not until now have we seen the crowning effort of nature's artist. Does there occur anywhere throughout this wide world a more brilliant spectacle than masses of scarlet lobelia in the height of bloom?

There came no cheerful flood of mellow light as the day closed. It was cool and gray even to the end, but the roof of clouds was not leaky, and no happiness was dampened. It is not to love sunshine less to learn as years roll by that other light may lead us, and nature has many a charming offering for those who not only wander on a cool, gray day, but venture even into the blackness of night.