THE PAGEANT OF THE SEASONS 91 



pageant of Nature long, the reader will tire. We 

 must try to imagine the scenes that would pass 

 before us if we tracked this rtvulet to the distant 

 spring whence comes its supply of crystal water. 

 There is something in a stream like this which seems 

 to fascinate the farther we follow it, and as its banks 

 lessen in width, the flowers, birds, and rippling 

 bubbles seem to speak of deeper mysteries. 



"There's something in that ancient superstition, 

 Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves. 

 The spring that, with its thousand crystal bubbles, 

 Bursts from the bosom of some desert rock 

 In secret solitude, may well be deem'd 

 The haunt of something purer, more refined, 

 And mightier than ourselves." 



So let us leave the happiness of the birds, the soft 

 sound of water under woodland trees, and the fulness 

 of life everywhere, and pass on. 



In the sultry days of July the birds cease their 

 songs. By the middle of the month the woods and 

 orchards, which four weeks ago were filled with a 

 chorus of happy music, are now almost silent, and 

 with the exception of a few robins no bird-notes are 

 to be heard. Come into the meadows, however, and 

 see the profusion of flowers which are here. What 

 we have lost in song is now made up in a rich supply 

 of wild flowers. The roadsides are covered with a 

 chequered carpet of growths as brilliant and as 



