By the first of August the midsummer glories of the Valley are past their prime.

The young birds are then out of their nests.

Most of the plants have gone to seed; berries are ripe; autumn tints begin to kindle and burn over meadow and grove, and a soft mellow haze in the morning sunbeams heralds the approach of Indian summer.

The shallow river is now at rest, its flood-work done.

It is now but little more than a series of pools united by trickling, whispering currents that steal softly over brown pebbles and sand with scarce an audible murmur.