of 



enough were we able to stop, to lie down under 

 a tree for the hour, unwearied, wide-awake, and 

 still. 



We can be glad with the spring, sad with the 

 autumn, eager with the winter ; but it is hard for us 

 to go softly, to pause, to be still, complete, sufficient, 

 full with the full, sufficient summer ; to hang poised 

 and expanded like the broad-winged hawk yonder far 

 up in the wide sky. 



But the hawk is not still. The shadow of my oak 

 begins to lengthen. The hour is gone even while it 

 comes, for wavering softly down the languid air falls 

 a yellow leaf from a slender gray birch near by. I 

 remember, too, that on my way through the woodlot 

 I frightened a small flock of robins from a pine ; and 

 more than a week ago the swallows were gathering 

 upon the telegraph wires. It was springtime even 

 yesterday ; to-day there are signs of autumn every- 

 where. Perhaps, after all, there is no such time as 

 summer, no pause, no rest, no quiet in the fields, 

 no hour of noon. 



Yet I get something out of the fields, these slum- 

 berous July days, that is neither of springtime nor of 

 autumn, a ripening, mellowing, quieting something, 



150 



