After half an hour of the katydids William spoke.
“Nick Damon’s helpin’ in the south lot t’day,” he observed.
“Was he?” asked his mother, pausing a moment in her rocking.
“Yep.”
Again he smoked, and the monotonous clamor was uninterrupted.
“Zig-a-zig! Zig-zig! Zig-a-zig-a-zig!”
Slowly, against the background of this machine-like clicking, there grew other sounds, weird, unhappy, far away.
“Wheep, wheep, wheep!”
This was a high, thin crying.
“Buroom! Brrroom! broom!”