Midsummer 



meadow always suggests to me possibilities 

 of tinkling music too ethereal for mortal 

 ears. Usually these flowers are yellow, 

 thickly spotted with brown, but this year 

 I find them of the deepest shade of orange. 

 Within the flower-cup the stamens are 

 heavily loaded with brown pollen. 



When with rhythmical sweep of his 

 long scythe the mower lays low whole 

 acres of lilies and clover, milkweeds, 

 daisies, and buttercups, there is a ten- 

 dency to bewail such a massacre of the 

 flowers. But, after all, this is no purpose- 

 less destruction. As the dead blossoms 

 lie heaped one upon another in the blaz- 

 ing sunlight, their sweetness is scattered 

 abroad with every breath of wind. As 

 we rest among the fragrant mounds we are 

 still subject to their pervading influence. 

 They " were lovely and pleasant in their 

 lives, and in their death they were not 

 divided. " 



But it is not the sentimentalist only 

 7S 



