HARBINGERS OF SUMMER 



in lowland a spot that did not glow with 

 the fact. On a bare ledge, where the 

 gnarled cedars have held the rim of the 

 hill all winter long against the gales and 

 zero weather, I thought I might find a 

 pause in the universal story. Here should 

 be only gray rock and a rim of brown 

 cedars, as much the furniture of winter 

 as of summer. But I had forgotten the 

 outlook. 



On the fields far below, the tall grass, 

 so green that it was fairly blue in com- 

 parison with the yellow of young leaves, 

 rushed forward before the wind like a 

 green flood of roaring water. Across the 

 plain and up the slopes it poured as the 

 waters of Niagara pour down the slope 

 to the brink of the fall. Even the white 

 foam of the rapids was simulated in the 

 silvery-green flashes that raced with the 

 breeze. Only summer grass thus flows. 

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