''The Toscaninis of the August night are never podium-bound. They leap from thicket to thicket to thicket, from the brocaded shadow of the elm to the bright spotlight of the young maple standing clear in the moon. There is so much melody for them to lead, they grow careless of their time; let them drop a beat or two and it goes on without them, the most irrepressible and buoyant and joyous of all symphonies.''
-- From In Praise of Seasons, by Alan H. Olmstead
