MINSTREL WEATHER $ CHAPTER 

 VIII. THE MOOD OF AUGUST <$ 



] HE wild cherries are no longer 

 garnet; they have darkened 

 to their harvest and hang in 

 somber ripeness from the 

 twig. Drowsy lie the grain 

 fields and slowly purpling vineyards. The 

 robin in the apple orchard is hardly to be 

 seen among the red-fruited boughs from 

 which the first Astrakhans are dropping. 

 Days of uncertain suns and exultant grow- 

 ing are over. A languorous pause has come 

 to the year. Even the crows, flapping away 

 across the windy blue, caw in a sleepy 

 fashion, not yet hoarse with anxiety be- 

 cause the huskers are hurrying the corn 



[43] 



