A fitful little breeze, as if itself subject to the influence of the heat, would wake up for a few moments, wave a few heads of horse-daisies, waft a few strains of odour from the blossoms of the white clover, and then die away fatigued with the effort.

Turkey took out his Jews' harp, and discoursed soothing if not eloquent strains.
At our feet, a few yards from the mound, ran a babbling brook, which divided our farm from the next.

Those of my readers whose ears are open to the music of Nature, must have observed how different are the songs sung by different brooks.

Some are a mere tinkling, others are sweet as silver bells, with a tone besides which no bell ever had.
Some sing in a careless, defiant tone.

This one sung in a veiled voice, a contralto muffled in the hollows of overhanging banks, with a low, deep, musical gurgle in some of the stony eddies, in which a straw would float for days and nights till a flood came, borne round and round in a funnel-hearted whirlpool.