44 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



Fanning so swiftly, the wasp's wings are but just 

 visible as he passes ; did he pause, the light would be 

 apparent through their texture. On the wings of the 

 dragon-fly as he hovers an instant before he darts 

 there is a prismatic gleam. These wing textures are 

 even more delicate than the minute filaments on a 

 swallow's quill, more delicate than the pollen of a 

 flower. They are formed of matter indeed, but how 

 exquisitely it is resolved into the means and organs of 

 life ! Though not often consciously recognized, perhaps 

 this is the great pleasure of summer, to watch the 

 earth, the dead particles, resolving themselves into 

 the living case of life, to see the seed-leaf push aside 

 the clod and become by degrees the perfumed flower. 

 From the tiny mottled egg come the wings that by- 

 and-by shall pass the immense sea. It is in this mar- 

 vellous transformation of clods and cold matter into 

 living things that the joy and the hope of summer 

 reside. Every blade of grass, each leaf, each separate 

 floret and petal, is an inscription speaking of hope. 

 Consider the grasses and the oaks, the swallows, the 

 sweet blue butterfly — they are one and all a sign and 

 token showing before our eyes earth made into life. 

 So that my hope becomes as broad as the horizon afar, 

 reiterated by every leaf, sung on every bough, reflected 

 in the gleam of every flower. There is so much for 

 us yet to come, so much to be gathered, and enjoyed. 

 Not for you or me, now, but for our race, who will 

 ultimately use this magical secret for their happiness. 

 Earth holds secrets enough to give them the life of 

 the fabled Immortals. My heart is fixed firm and 

 stable in the belief that ultimately the sunshine and 



