JULY 



21 



I wonder if any Roman emperor ever indulged 

 in such a luxury as this, of walking up and down 

 a river in torrid weather with only a hat to shade 

 the head. . . . Now we traverse a long watery plain 

 some two feet deep ; now we descend into a dark 

 river valley, where the bottom is lost sight of and 

 the water rises to our armpits ; now we go over a 

 hard iron pan ; now we stoop and go under a low 

 bough of the Salix nigra ; now we slump into soft 

 mud, amid the pads of the Nymphcea odorata, at 

 this hoxir shut. . . . We finally return to the dry 

 land and recline in the shade of an apple-tree on a 



bank overlooking the meadow. 



THOREAU: Summer. 



22 



I climbed a hill path strange and new 

 With slow feet, pausing at each turn ; 



A sudden waft of west wind blew 

 The breath of the sweet fern. 



That fragrance from my vision swept 

 The alien landscape ; in its stead, 



Up fairer hills of youth I stepped, 

 As light of heart as tread. 



WHITTIER : Sweet Fern. 



