i8o FROM A MIDDLESEX GARDEN 



How sweet it is at this dawn-hour to walk where the 

 world is quiet save for Nature's own music ; how many are 

 the charms to discover in a half-mile walk ! Who can de- 

 scribe them fully? Who can paint in colours or describe 

 in words the sparkle of the silver dew upon the golden 

 dandelion and the emerald fern, beneath ripening seed, inter- 

 mingled with opening and opened blossoms upon the hedge ? 

 The fields, it is true, are shorn of their waving grasses 

 and blossoms, and are fast preparing for an aftermath ; but 

 along their sides we may find the blue flowers of the chicory 

 and harebell, the white heads of fragrant yarrow, and the 

 coral-pink stars and delicate foliage of the musk-mallow. 

 There is a tender beauty and a world of charm in the 

 appearance of the time-worn and moss-mosaicked stones of 

 the old bridge, and there are such dreams to dream as one 

 stands upon it in the quiet dawn, listening to the song of 

 the stream rippling below among the green rushes and pale 

 blossoms of the water-plantain, and the osiers fast reddening 

 beside the stream. Over the bridge in the early dawn go 

 the travelling harvesters to seek for toil in the neighbouring 

 fields, sunburnt and bent; onward they go, tired man and 

 weary woman ; at their side a lassie with so sad a look upon 

 her little face as though she never knew the true meaning 

 of youth, who never knew the love of a playmate, whose 

 playthings in babyhood were but the purple and white clover 

 blossoms. Very sweetly sings the cornfield's chorister above 

 the ripening grain, telling to heaven of earth's thankful- 

 ness for the new-born day in its wild, glad music. Sad it is 

 that amid the light and beauty and song of harvest dawn 

 there should be cast the shadow of sorrow, and that the 

 sign of poverty and penury should be heard known and 

 felt by these travelling harvesters ! Even in the midst 



