THE SEAMY SIDE OF SUMMER. 



THE sun is just going down in a splendour more 

 wonderful than the glory of kings. Over 

 the close-cropped ryefield and the maples 

 beyond, and the hills behind their green domes, 

 shines a purple light in which every tree and every 

 stretch of meadow seems transformed into some 

 dreamland scene, and throbs with an unearthly 

 beauty. The sun's disk is deepened to a dull red 

 from which all the gold has been extracted, and 

 when it is fairly below the verge the light and colour 

 fade at once and leave the landscape to the fast- 

 gathering grey of the dusk. It is a scene which 

 makes the observer admire reluctantly ; for he knows 

 that every hue and every glowing effect is born of 

 the earth's pain and unrest. This purple flush is the 

 hectic of the drought-fever. It would not redden 

 the west but for the heats which now for weeks 

 have parched the fields, and dried the soil and the 

 air, and burnt the life out of the herbage. It is un- 

 natural and unwholesome, and it is a reminder of 

 the seamy side of the summer. 



I have sometimes thought that there is a visible 



reluctance on the part of nature-lovers to describe or 



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