SEPTEMBER SUNSHINE 



WE might parody an old gastronomic proverb and say, 

 " The nearer the equinox, the sweeter the day." Back 

 behind March, or beyond September, lies winter, but 

 in the one case there is all the ice of the coldest months 

 to thaw, while now we have all the warmth of summer 

 to live on. To-day, the sun has early broken up the 

 mist of a warm night, and, two hours before noon, is 

 shining down with all the majesty of high June. 

 The swallows that have congregated for weeks past 

 on the telegraph-poles along the river are evidently 

 wavering in their determination to leave us. Even 

 the rat, who has been climbing the bean-stalks, using 

 his weight to break them down, and carrying the corn 

 to his granary, almost decides that after all there will 

 be no winter. At any rate, he comes at longer 

 intervals, and consequently carries fewer beans in the 

 hour. 



Now is the month of wings. The crawling, skipping, 

 tumbling, quiescently eating life of the garden has 

 attained the reward of waiting, and is now mounted on 

 gauzy oars, that flash like screws as they propel the 

 little aeronauts to and fro in the bright sunshine. The 

 ivy blossom swarms with gross blue-bottles, refulgent 

 green -bottles, wasps, bees, and an occasional butterfly- 

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