37 



THE JUL Y GRASS, 



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 the 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. The wind swung the bennet and 

 kxjscned his hold, and away he went again over the 

 ^H'asses, and not one jot did he care if they were Poa or 

 Fcstuca, or Bromus or Hordeum^ or any other name. 

 Names were nothing to him ; all he had to do was to 

 whirl his scarlet spots about in the brilliant sun, rest 

 when he liked, and go on again. 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. 



The fly whirls his scarlet-spotted wings about and 

 splashes himself with sunlight, like the children on the 

 sands. He thinks not of the grass and sun ; he does 

 not heed them at all — and that is why he is so happy — 

 any more than the barefoot children ask why the sea is 

 there, or why it does not quite dry up when it ebbs. 

 He is unconscious ; he lives without thinking about 



