FOOTSTEPS OF THE SEASONS. 193 



field from hawthorn buds and new-mown hay, and each passing breeze 

 seems intoxicated with perfume and delight. *' When vagrant zephyrs 

 come sporting along, as if commissioned to sweeten your path ; when 

 the hay-field, ready for the scythe, plays in gentle glittering undula- 

 tions, as if it were a sea of beryl. When the rich pastures, starred 

 over with the sweet, though lowly blossoms of the white clover, breathe 

 balm and honey combined, and the industrious bees are flitting from 

 flower to flower, softening the air with their drowsy songs of delight ; 

 when the trembling poplar salutes you with all its leaves, and the 

 birds, many from trans- equatorial climes, are enjoying their meridian 

 siesta, in order that they may pour forth their gratitude in vesper or 

 in matin song ; " * when high above our heads the grey clouds are 

 sailing to the far off hills, as if they were hurrying on to other worlds 

 to bear tidings of the beauty of this ; when green nooks are like to 

 shrines dedicated to the spirit of all beauty, shut out from the world, 

 as if too sacred for the abode of any but silence, and to be disturbed 

 only by the murmuring of the brook, as it tumbles over the bright 

 pebbles, and the faintest whispering of the russet-coloured grasses, 

 where green things only grow and wave. 



As Spring is the season of buds, so Summer is the time of blossoms ; 

 but not amid the rich profusion of midsummer is the blooming of 

 plants only ; for when the forest is clothed in its deepest shade of 

 leaves, and the meadow becomes a deep billowy sea of verdurcj the 

 flowers begin to wane. But when the Spring and Summer meet each 

 other is the time of floral luxury. When Summer first dawns there 

 is such a plenitude of flowers, that we seem living in a world made of 

 rainbows, and stars, and fragrant airs. 



" For who would sing the flowers of June, 

 Though from grey morn to blazing noon, 

 From blazing noon to dewy eve 

 The chaplet of his song he weave, 

 Would find his summer daylight fail. 

 And leave half-told the pleasing tale." 



On every hedge, the clematis twines its delicate trellis work, and 

 hangs its little fairy blossoms in countless myriads. And beside it 

 the wortlebury is coming into bloom, and decking the hedges for 



* Robert Mudie. 

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