THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER, 49 



leaf, the swinging grass, the fluttering bird's wing, 

 and the thousand oval membranes which innumerable 

 insects whirl about, a faint resonance seems to come 

 from the very earth itself. The fervour of the sun- 

 beams descending in a tidal flood rings on the strung 

 harp of earth. It is this exquisite undertone, heard 

 and yet unheard, which brings the mind into sweet 

 accordance with the wonderful instrument of nature. 



By the apple tree there is a low bank, where the 

 grass is less tall and admits the heat direct to the 

 ground ; here there are blue flowers — bluer than 

 the wings of my favourite butterflies — with white 

 centres — the lovely bird's-eyes, or veronica. The 

 violet and cowslip, bluebell and rose, are known to 

 thousands ; the veronica is overlooked. The plough- 

 boys know it, and the wayside children, the mower 

 and those who linger in fields, but few else. Brightly 

 blue and surrounded by greenest grass, imbedded in 

 and all the more blue for the shadow of the grass, 

 these growing butterflies' wings draw to themselves 

 the sun. From this island I look down into the depth 

 of the grasses. Red sorrel spires — deep drinkers of 

 reddest sun wine — stand the boldest, and in their 

 numbers threaten the buttercups. To these in the 

 distance they give the gipsy-gold tint — the reflection 

 of fire on plates of the precious metal. It will show 

 even on a ring by firelight ; blood in the gold, they 

 say. Gather the open marguerite daisies, and they 

 seem large — so wide a disc, such fingers of rays ; but 

 in the grass their size is toned by so much green. 

 Clover heads of honey lurk in the bunches and by the 

 hidden footpath. Like clubs from Polynesia the tips 



