INVOCATION 



THROUGHOUT the long glaring days of July 

 pitiful cries quiver in the heat; the sheep 

 are dying of thirst. Even some of the 

 hill-springs are now mere trickles. 



This north coast of Devon is mocked by 

 the vision of the bluest of seas, calm and 

 shining under the summer sun. The fields 

 stretching down to the sands are parched 

 and brown, the grasses mere ghosts, dry 

 and sapless. Even the sea breeze has little 

 of refreshment in its motion ; it is merely 

 heated air. 



Many of the sheep are dead. Jackdaws, 

 gulls, carrion crows, and rooks are feasting 

 on the bloated carcases which remain; the 

 shimmering hum of flies innumerable gives 

 to our English midsummer a tropical 

 semblance. Nor are there any swallows 



to decimate these pests. I have seen about 

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