THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 

 I 



KEEN rushes, long and thick, stand- 

 V_J ing up above the edge of the ditch, 

 told the hour of the year as distinctly as 

 the shadow on the dial the hour of the 

 day. Green and thick and sappy to the 

 touch, they felt like summer, soft and 

 elastic, as if full of life, mere rushes 

 though they were. On the fingers they 

 left a green scent ; rushes have a separate 

 scent of green, so, too, have ferns, very 

 different to that of grass or leaves. Ris- 

 ing from brown sheaths, the tall stems 

 enlarged a little in the middle, like classi- 

 cal columns, and heavy with their sap and 

 freshness, leaned against the hawthorn 

 sprays. From the earth they had drawn 

 its moisture, and made the ditch dry; 



