The glittering black birds flashing over every tree top answered the "T'check, t'chee!" of the Harvester quite as readily as their mates.
The last time he paused to rest he had studied scents.

When he straightened again he was occupied with every voice of earth and air around and above him, and the notes of singing hens, exultant cocks, the scream of geese, the quack of ducks, the rasping crescendo of guineas running wild in the woods, the imperial note of Ajax sunning on the ridge pole and echoes from all of them on adjoining and distant farms.
"'Now I see the full meaning and beauty of that word sound!'" quoted the Harvester.

"'I thank God for sound.

It always mounts and makes me mount!'" He breathed deeply and stood listening, a superb figure of a man, his lean face glowing with emotion.
"If she could see and hear this, she would come," he said softly.

"She would come and she would love it as I do.