FOOTSTEPS OF THE SEASONS. 201 



which, if left undisUxrbed till another Spring, will be homes once more. 

 Where the hawthorn hung out its snowy sheets of bloom, the spider 

 is now busy at work in weaving a tapestry of cobwebs ; and there, 

 under the broad leaves, he lurks like a fiend of darkness, to glut 

 himself with the blood of the innocents who fall into his wily snares. 

 Sometimes when he wakes in the morning he finds his wheel-like 

 traps powdered all over with diamonds and pearls, and gleaming with 

 rainbow hues and fire sparks, and just as he has managed to calculate 

 the value of the jewelled treasures, thej^ vanish in the morning sun- 

 beams ; and leave the grey old sinner to wreak his vengeance upon 

 the first miserable straggler which becomes entangled in his snares. 

 In the morning, too, the vapours grow terrible and lusty, and have 

 fierce battles with the sun, although they are always driven off and 

 worsted ; and the bee begins to have slight touches of headache, and 

 rises late, and when he does go forth his song is not so joyous as 

 of yore. And the summer flowers are gone too, — yes, and the 

 summer birds, heaven be with them wheresoever they may be. Yes, 

 gone are the flame-like ringlets of the laburnum, gone are the buds 

 of the pink-eyed pimpernel; gone are the cuckoo and the night- 

 ingale, the swallow, the wheatear, the ring-ousel, and the thousands 

 of little soft-billed birds that haunt the summer woods of Britain ; 

 how could they stay when they saw the flowers sinking down to die ? 

 How could they linger when all their sweet companions of the morning 

 were falling into early graves ? How could they flit over fields where 

 the meek speedwell lay blanched and withering ; where there were no 

 scarlet poppies ; where the pimpernel and the wild thyme and the 

 asphodel, were drooping in silent sorrow, for the twilight waning of 

 the year ? No ! The fairy people of the woods have gone to other 

 climes to spend their grief in weeping. 



But although the sun has grown older, and rises later in the morning ; 

 although he has lost the youthful vigour which he had in the hours 

 of spring, and the manly force and majesty of summer; he can yet 

 fling fervid beams upon the green hill side, and call forth living 

 creatures of the earth and air ; for beauty lives for ever, and is with 

 us still. The autumn crocus is still blooming sweetly in the mea- 

 dows, the harebell still hangs out its azure bells to nod dreamily in 

 the sunshine ; the wild mint creeps down into moist, shady places, 

 and lures the singing bees with its intoxicating fi"agrance. The 

 hawkweeds come sprinkling into bloom along the brown pathways, 



