JULY 183 



July Grass " ; it is an essay to be remembered as we walk 

 between the wild-rose hedges; therein he says: "A July fly 

 went sideways over the long grass. His wings made a burr 

 about him like a net, beating so fast they wrapped him round 

 with a cloud. Every now and then, as he flew over trees of 

 grass, a taller one than common stopped him, and there he 

 clung, and then the eye had time to see the scarlet spots 

 the loveliest colour on his wings ... I wonder whether it 

 is a joy to have bright scarlet spots, and to be clad in the 

 purple and gold of life ? Is the colour felt by the creature 

 that wears it ? The rose, restful of a dewy morn, before the 

 sunbeams have topped the garden wall, must feel a joy in its 

 own fragrance, and know the exquisite hue of its stained 

 petals. The rose sleeps in its beauty." In that wholly 

 delightful book, " Days and Hours in a Garden," these 

 following lines on the wild rose are prettily told : " Among 

 the pleasant sights of Summer-tide, perhaps the pleasantest of 

 all, is the thicket of wild roses. . . . The east, shining full 

 upon it every morning, brings forth hundreds of new-blown 

 roses. Very often as you pass into their sweet presence, the 

 air is redolent of a subtle perfume not always, though, not 

 every day, for roses are capricious of their scent. The yellow- 

 stamened centre of each flower glows like a tiny lamp of 

 gold, and the soft petals surrounding it are rose-pink of the 

 tenderest dye. Were these the canker-blooms of Shake- 

 speare ? If so, and if in his day they could be said to ' live 

 unwooed, and unrespected die/ surely now the tide has 

 turned, for the wild rose is beloved of all." 



