When was it that first I heard of the grass harp? Long before the autumn we lived in the China tree; an earlier autumn then; and of course it was Dolly who told me, no one else would have known to call it that, a grass harp.

Below the hill grows a field of high Indian grass that changes color with the seasons: go to see it in the fall, scarlet shadows like firelight breeze over it and the autumn winds strum on its dry leaves sighing human music, a harp of voices.

Do you hear? That is the grass harp, always telling a story — it knows the stories of all the people on the hill, of all the people who ever lived, and when we are dead it will tell ours, too.

– Truman Capote