THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



There are minute white flowers on the 

 top of the wall, out of reach, and lichen 

 grows against it dried by the sun until it 

 looks ready to crumble. By the gateway 

 grows a thick bunch of meadow geranium, 

 soon to flower; over the gate is the dusty 

 highway road, quiet but dusty, dotted with 

 the innumerable footmarks of a flock of 

 sheep that has passed. The sound of their 

 bleating still comes back, and the bees 

 driven up by their feet have hardly had 

 time to settle again on the white clover 

 beginning to flower on the short roadside 

 sward. All the hawthorn leaves and 

 briar and bramble, the honeysuckle, too, 

 is gritty with the dust that has been 

 scattered upon it. But see can it be? 

 Stretch a hand high, quick, and reach it 

 down ; the first, the sweetest, the dearest 

 rose of June. Not yet expected, for the 

 time is between the may and the roses, 

 least of all here in the hot and dusty 

 highway; but it is found the first rose 

 of June. 



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