THE JULY GRASS. 



A JULY fly went sideways over the long grass. His 

 wings made a burr about him like a net, beating so fast 

 they wrapped him round with a cloud. Every now and 

 then, as he flew over the trees of grass, a taller one than 

 common stopped him, and there he clung, and then the 

 eye had time to see the scarlet spots — the loveliest 

 colour — on his wings. The wind swung the burnet and 

 loosened his hold, and away he went again over the 

 grasses, and not one jot did he care if they were Poa or 

 Festucdy or Bromus or Hordeum, or any other name. 

 Names were nothing to him ; all he had to do was to 

 whirl his scarlet spots about in the brilliant sun, rest 

 when he liked, and go on again. I wonder whether it is 

 a joy to have bright scarlet spots, and to be clad in the 

 purple and gold of life ; is the colour felt by the creature 

 that wears it ? The rose, restful of a dewy morn before 

 the sunbeams have topped the garden wall, must feel a 

 joy in its own fragrance, and know the exquisite hue of 

 its stained petals. The rose sleeps in its beauty. 



The fly whirls his scarlet-spotted wings about and 

 splashes himself with sunlight, like the children on the 

 sands. He thinks not of the grass and sun ; he does 

 not heed them at all — and that is why he is so happy — 

 any more than the barefoot children ask why the sea is 

 there, or why it does not quite dry up when it ebbs. 

 He is unconscious ; he lives without thinking about 



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