er sees peach-trees ablossom, or in this man- 

 ner eats of the fruit thereof, misses some- 

 what of life's pure joys. At flower, its almond 

 scent is the finest note in April's harmony 

 of perfume ; at fruit, the odor is as truly the 

 crown and perfecting of summer sweets. It 

 is like nothing else under the sun. Breathe 

 it with shut eyelids, and you shall see vi- 

 sions and dream dreams. It is Nature's last 

 touch the crowning mercy of her marvel- 

 lous handiwork. Peaches picked for mar- 

 ket three .days or six before ripeness have 

 never the ghost of it. Here it comes, hot 

 and sweet, upon all the low winds that 

 breathe rather than blow. On their wings 

 it follows follows far out into the grass- 

 land, where sheep, shorn but a month, graze 

 in full-fed content. What eyes the creat- 

 ures have stupid, gentle, appealing, full, 

 too, of timid curiosity ! Drop your hand- 

 kerchief upon some small shrub or brier, 

 and mark how they will circle about it with 

 lifted heads, longing, yet fearing, to approach 

 the fluttering thing. 



Noon comes with short shadows, with stir- 

 less air. A hot shimmer wraps all the world. 

 Sounds die in it to a drowsy hum. Even 

 the cicada's rasping is a monotone of peace. 

 Bees shelter them in the hearts of flowers. 



