AT THE BEND OF THE RIVER. 



IT is the time when leaves are greenest. Summer 

 has begun her reign ; Spring is vanishing among 

 the trees. 



It is the May-time of the poets. Surely never were 

 there whiter sheets of daisies in the pasture, never 

 blazed so bright the gorse upon the hill, never shone 

 the meadows with such wealth of gold. Never were 

 , woods more full of beauty, skies more blue, or fields 

 more fair. 



We will hold no longer by the saws that warned us 

 of the treachery of May, of her fleeting sunshine, of 

 her fickle moods. She is a queen, a goddess born. 

 Prophecies of evil fall on heedless ears as we feel our 

 hearts beat high in answer to her soft caresses, while 

 her breath is sweet upon our heated brows ; when we 

 think, as we listen in the twilight, that the year has 

 lent new beauty to the blackbird's hymn, that there is 

 more charm than ever in the music of the lark. 



It is a day of golden weather. 



A haze as of the summer broods over the landscape, 



