The Open Air 



were very plentiful; but although the heat might 

 have seemed so favourable to them, the flies were 

 not at all numerous, I mean out-of-doors. Wasps, 

 on the contrary, flourished to an extraordinary 

 degree. One willow tree particularly took their 

 fancy; there was a swarm in the tree for weeks, 

 attracted by some secretion; the boughs and leaves 

 were yellow with wasps. But it seemed curious that 

 flies should not be more numerous than usual; they 

 are dying now fast enough, except a few of the large 

 ones, that still find some sugar in the flowers of the 

 ivy. The finest show of ivy flower is among some 

 yew trees ; the dark ivy has filled the dark yew tree, 

 and brought out its pale yellow-green flowers in the 

 sombre boughs. Last night, a great fly, the last 

 in the house, buzzed into my candle. I detest flies, 

 but I was sorry for his scorched wings ; the fly itself 

 hateful, its wings so beautifully made. I have some- 

 times picked a feather from the dirt of the road and 

 placed it on the grass. It is contrary to one's feelings 

 to see so beautiful a thing lying in the mud. Towards 

 my window now, as I write, there comes suddenly a 

 shower of yellow leaves, wrested out by main force 

 from the high elms ; the blue sky behind them, they 

 droop slowly, borne onward, twirling, fluttering 

 towards me a cloud of autumn butterflies. 



A spring rises on the summit of a green brow that 

 overlooks the meadows for miles. The spot is not 

 really very high, still it is the highest ground in that 

 direction for a long distance, and it seems singular 

 to find water on the top of the hill, a thing common 

 enough, but still sufficiently opposed to general 

 impressions to appear remarkable. In this shallow 

 water, says a faint story far off, faint and uncertain, 

 like the murmur of a distant cascade two ladies and 



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