(Tloon 



the goldenrod, and here in July, the sumac, give down 

 to these immigrant bees their honey-sweets. 



High noon of the year ! The laggard breeze comes 

 to me now from the maple swamp, slow and sleepy 

 with the odor of the white azaleas ; a flock of chick- 

 adees stop and quiz me ; the quivering click-clack of 

 a distant mowing-machine fills the air with a drowsy 

 hum. 



Up to this time I have not seen a black snake, but 

 now one is watching me with raised head from the 

 edge of ferns among the rocks. One step toward him 

 and the lifted, rigid neck, a flashing streak of j et, glides 

 swiftly, evenly, mysteriously away, leaving me with an 

 uncanny feeling of chill. 



It, too, is a creature of the sun, as is everything that 

 seems to belong especially to July. Smells, colors, 

 sounds, shapes, are all sun-born. The hum of the in- 

 sects, the music of the mower, the clear, strong hues 

 of the flowers, the sweet breath of curing hay, the 

 heavy balsamic odors of the woods, everything seems 

 either a distillation, a vibration, an essence, or some 

 direct, immediate work of the sun. 



Has your blood been work and winter faded until 

 it runs thin ? Would you feel the pulse of a new 



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