THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER. 59 



in high rage to see us. Under an ancient garden wall 

 among matted bines of trumpet convolvulus, there is a 

 hedge-sparrow's nest overhung with ivy on which 

 even now the last black berries cling. 



There are minute white flowers on the top of the 

 wall, out of reach, and lichen grows against it dried by 

 the sun till it looks ready to crumble. By the gate- 

 way 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 foot- 

 marks 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. 



Straight go the white petals to the heart ; straight 

 the mind's glance goes back to how many other 

 pageants of summer in old times ! When perchance 

 the sunny days were even more sunny ; when the 

 stilly oaks were full of mystery, lurking like the 

 Druid's mistletoe in the midst of their mighty branches. 

 A glamour in the heart came back to it again from 

 every flower ; as the sunshine was reflected from them 

 so the feeling in the heart returned tenfold. To the 

 dreamy summer haze love gave a deep enchantment, 



