THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER. 55 



butterfly comes and stays on a leaf — a leaf much 

 warmed by the sun — and shuts his wings. In a 

 minute he opens them, shuts them again, half wheels 

 round, and by-and-by — just when he chooses, and not 

 before — floats away. Tlie flowers open, and remain 

 open for hours, to the sun. Hastelessness is the only 

 word one can make up to describe it ; there is much 

 rest, but no haste. Each moment, as with the green- 

 finches, is so full of life that it seems so long and so 

 sufficient in itself. Not only the days, but life itself 

 lengthens in summer. I would spread abroad my arms 

 and gather more of it to me, could I do so. 



All the procession of living and growing things 

 passes. The grass stands up taller and still taller, the 

 sheaths open, and the stalk arises, the pollen clings till 

 the breeze sweeps it. The bees rush past, and the 

 resolute wasps ; the humble-bees, whose weight swings 

 them along. About the oaks and maples the brown 

 chafers swarm, and the fern-owls at dusk, and the 

 blackbirds and jays by day, cannot reduce their legions 

 while they last. Yellow butterflies, and white, broad 

 red admirals, and sweet blues ; think of the kingdom 

 of flowers which is theirs ! Heavy moths burring at 

 the edge of the copse ; green, and red, and gold flies : 

 gnats, like smoke, around the tree-tops ; midges so 

 thick over the brook, as if you could haul a netful ; 

 tiny leaping creatures in the grass; bronze beetles 

 across the path; blue dragonflies pondering on cool 

 leaves of water-plantain. Blue jays flitting, a magpie 

 drooping across from elm to elm ; young rooks that 

 have escaped the hostile shot blundering up into the 

 branches ; missel thrushes leading their fledglings. 



