THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



grass stiffens at nightfall (in autumn), and 

 he must creep where he may, if possibly he 

 may escape the frost. No one cares for 

 the humble bee. But down to the flower- 

 ing nettle in the mossy-sided ditch, up into 

 the tall elm, winding in and out and round 

 the branched buttercups, along the banks 

 of the brook, far inside the deepest wood, 

 away he wanders and despises nothing. 

 His nest is under the rough grasses and 

 the mosses of the mound, a mere tunnel 

 beneath the fibres and matted surface. 

 The hawthorn overhangs it, the fern grows 

 by, red mice rustle past. 



It thunders, and the great oak trembles ; 

 the heavy rain drops through the treble 

 roof of oak and hawthorn and fern. 

 Under the arched branches the lightning 

 plays along, swiftly to and fro, or seems 

 to, like the swish of a whip, a yellowish- 

 red against the green ; a boom ! a crackle 

 as if a tree fell from the sky. The thick 

 grasses are bowed, the white florets of the 

 wild parsley are beaten down, the rain 



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