THE MOOD OF AUGUST 



The aspect of the buckwheat fields is 

 August's signet. From their goldenrod 

 borders reaches a world of happy white- 

 ness, against sky the color of the pickerel- 

 weed flower, waving softly, shadowed only 

 by the plumy clouds. The corn is out in 

 topgallant, and if you look from a moun- 

 tain path into the planted valley, the e*cru 

 tassels have hidden the lustrous ribbon 

 leaves. Cornfields are never silent. Al- 

 ways there is a low swish, like that of 

 little summer waves on a lake shore. 



Lavender and purple thistles, brimmed 

 with nectar, are besought by imperious 

 bees and the great blue-black butterfly, 

 but already their pale-lit ships drift, unre- 

 turning, under sealed orders, to some far 

 harbor in the port of spring. More silvery 

 still, the milkweed is adrift. Fleets of 

 white butterflies rise and fall with the sun- 

 set breeze, and slow, twilight moths come 

 from under the brakes at the hour of dew. 

 White-flowered, the clematis and wild cu- 

 cumber, the creamy honeysuckle of the 

 amorous fragrance, cover fence rail and 

 stone wall, give petals to the barren under- 

 brush, twine fearlessly around barbed wire, 

 and festoon deserted barns. Healing herbs 



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