UNDER THE MAPLES. 



AT last the dream of many weeks is realised. 

 The hot and steaming city is leagues away. 

 Its rattle and its racket are become a mere 

 memory of pain. The eye no longer wearies of the 

 endless procession of men and women who defile 

 from morning till night over the pavements. The 

 wandering glance no longer rests on tin-roofs baking 

 in the uncompromising glare of the sun, or roves 

 down into backyards which seem like so many pens 

 for catching the heat. All that is vanished ; and in- 

 stead of it, a scene meets the eye in which one loses 

 sense and thought in a sweet oblivion of content. 

 To be sure it is hot ; because this, is July and heat is 

 to be expected. The air quivers and throbs over the 

 rye-field. The far hills retreat still farther behind a 

 blue haze. Overhead the clear azure of the sky 

 deepens to an intenser shade as one sees it against 

 the bright green of the maples. The maples them- 

 selves arch the table which serves for a summer 

 writing-desk with a thick shade, and the fresh breeze 

 which cools the spaces under the branches voices 

 itself in a cheery song among the leaves. Under the 

 maples here in Berkshire is an incomparable vantage- 

 is 



