THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



is a peculiar sound which is only heard 

 in summer. Waiting quietly to discover 

 what birds are about, I become aware of 

 a sound in the very air. It is not the 

 midsummer hum which will soon be heard 

 over the heated hay in the valley and over 

 the cooler hills alike. It is not enough to 

 be called a hum, and does but just tremble 

 at the extreme edge of hearing. If the 

 branches wave and rustle they overbear 

 it ; the buzz of a passing bee is so much 

 louder it overcomes all of it that is in the 

 whole field. I cannot define it except by 

 calling the hours of winter to mind they 

 are silent; you hear a branch crack or 

 creak as it rubs another in the wood, you 

 hear the hoar frost crunch on the grass 

 beneath your feet, but the air is without 

 sound in itself. The sound of summer is 

 everywhere in the passing breeze, in the 

 hedge, in the broad-branching trees, in the 

 grass as it swings ; all the myriad particles 

 that together make the summer varied are 

 in motion. The sap moves in the trees, 



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