THE MAKERS OF SUMMER. 



THE leaves are starting here and there from green buds 

 on the hedge, but within doors a warm fire is still 

 necessary, when one day there is a slight sound in the 

 room, so peculiar, and yet so long forgotten, that though 

 we know what it is, we have to look at the object before 

 we can name it. It is a house-fly, woke up from his 

 winter sleep, on his way across to the window-pane, 

 where he will buzz feebly for a little while in the sun- 

 shine, flourishing best like a hothouse plant under glass. 

 By-and-by he takes a turn or two under the centre- 

 piece, and finally settles on the ceiling. Then, one or 

 two other little flies of a different species may be seen 

 on the sash ; and in a little while the spiders begin to 

 work, and their round silky cocoons are discovered in 

 warm corners of the woodwork. Spiders run about the 

 floors and spin threads by the landing windows ; where 

 there are webs it is certain the prey is about, though 

 not perhaps noticed. Next, some one finds a moth. 

 Poor moth ! he has to suffer for being found out. 



As it grows dusk the bats flitter to and fro by the 

 house ; there are moths, then, abroad for them. Upon 

 the cucumber frame in the sunshine perhaps there may 

 be seen an ant or two, almost the first out of the nest ; 

 the frame is warm. There are flowers open, despite the 

 cold wind and sunless sky ; and as these are fertilised 

 by insects, it follows that there must be more winged 



