Midsummer 



whose edges gleam silvery birches, whose 

 tops are soft with the tassels of the chest- 

 nut. Below it slopes a meadow turned 

 yellow with the pale flowers of the wild 

 radish. Above it surges a field of grain 

 which grows dark and cool with the 

 shadow of a scurrying cloud. If one 

 were nearer he would see among the 

 wheat the bright pink - purple petals 

 and green ruff -like calyx of the corn 

 cockle. 



The year is at its height. The bosom 

 of the earth is soft and restful as that of a 

 mother. One abides in its perfect pres- 

 ent, looking neither behind nor before. 

 With the ever-recurring scent of new- 

 mown hay comes another odor, aromatic, 

 permeating. From our feet slopes 



" a bank where the wild thyme grows." 



Only in this one spot have I ever met 



with this classic little plant, with its 



close purple flowers and tiny rigid leaves. 



90 



