UNDER THE MAPLES 



the rank, dark foliage of the trees, the daisies still 

 white in the sun, the buttercups gilding the pas- 

 tures and hill-slopes, the clover shedding its 

 perfume, the timothy shaking out its little clouds 

 of pollen as the sickle-bar strikes it, most of the 

 song-birds still vocal, and the tide of summer 

 standing poised at its full. Very soon it will begin 

 to ebb, the stalks of the meadow grasses will be- 

 come dry and harsh, the clover will fade, the 

 girlish daisies will become coarse and matronly, 

 the birds will sing fitfully or cease altogether, the 

 pastures will turn brown, and the haymakers will 

 find the hay half cured as it stands waiting for 

 them in the meadows. 



What a wonderful thing is the grass, so common, 

 so abundant, so various, a green summer snow that 

 softens the outlines of the landscape, that makes a 

 carpet for the foot, that brings a hush to the fields, 

 and that furnishes food to so many and such various 

 creatures! More than the grazing animals live 

 upon the grass. All our cereals — wheat, barley, 

 rye, rice, oats, corn — belong to the great family of 

 the grasses. 



Grass is the nap of the fields; it is the under-' 

 garment of the hills. It gives us the meadow, a 

 feature in the northern landscape so common that 

 we cease to remark it, but which we miss at once 

 when we enter a tropical or semi-tropical country. 

 In Cuba and Jamaica and Hawaii I saw no mead- 



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