HAPPY HOURS OF SUMMER 



1079 



him. INIyriads of midges make the alder 

 shade impossible — minute specks with 

 speckly wings setthng continually on the 

 face and hands, swarms of the biting 

 Ceratopogon. The larger forms are 

 scarcely worse — gUding along the banks 

 the swallows devour them in thousands, 

 yet day after day they are as numerous 

 as ever. 



Away goes a brown dipper, straight up 

 stream, skimming along the surface to a 

 rock. A dozen times he bobs up and 

 down as if curtseying. Wading into the 

 water, buffeting the current with his 

 broad white breast, one minute he is 

 under, then up again, wading on, dipping 

 his head quickly from side to side. 



Nearing the woods the stream narrows, 

 flowing between steep banks ; a cleft of 

 verdant loveliness, of matted woodbine 

 and traihng bramble, where wavy grass 

 and ferns in wild profusion o'erhang the 

 silvery water falling in tiny cascades from 

 pool to pool among the rocks. Grassy 

 and soft, the path winds through the 

 glade amid the brackens. Rare beauty is 

 here ; green of oak and spruce, darker 

 hues of firs, and the green of grasses and 

 branching bracken tall around the trunks, 

 a blended tracery of variant fohage bril- 

 liant under the ethereal blue. Green 

 mosses carpeting the pathway heighten 

 the colouring and accentuate the cool- 

 ness. " Coo-coo, roo-coo," the ring dove 

 crooning ; tits " chee, zee," sounds in 

 the reigning stillness. " Koor-lee," high 

 above the towering firs a curlew winging 

 its way to the lone moor. Again the 

 weird " koor-lee." 



Beyond the pines the hills are tinged 

 heath purple. You cannot see it, but it 

 is there, yellow tormentil, summery dots 

 amid the ling ; and fancy hears again 

 the old familiar cry, " errrr, beck, beck ; 

 goback, goback, goback," a grouse 

 ahghting on a heathery " knowe." 



Wasps are everywhere. Xot until the 

 season's prime do the wasps appear. 

 They c(jme, as it were, to enjoy the cream 

 of summer. There is a continuous file of 

 wasps to and from a printed bill upon the 

 telegraph pole. Bit by l)it they are cut- 

 ting it away, carrying it off t(j make a 

 flaky papier-mache for the nest. 



Livid scarlet poppies glow among the 

 ripening corn along the margin of the 

 fields. Scentless, bitter, and poisonous, 

 there is a subtlety about the colour of 

 the poppy which saves it. Common, but 

 never commonplace, are the poppies. 

 Great spreads of yellow as far as the eye 

 can reach, the chervil or wild mustard 

 scattered throughout the oats ; and acres 

 of potato blossom, some white, some light 

 purple. How sweet the scent of the new 

 mown hay from the fields where the 

 workers toil in the sweltering heat ! Bees 

 are busy there on the purple heads of 

 the uncut clover. Gad-flies torment the 

 horses, gathering in swarms at every 

 swish through the grass. Were it not for 

 the troublesome flies, how pleasant the 

 haying ! 



Lightly across the loch the cooUng 

 breeze fans the hot air. The gleaming 

 wavelets lap the stony strand. The whole 

 expanse bespeaks repose. The pine-clad 

 slopes invite, red deer are yonder, but 

 the heat is overpowering ; it is enough 

 to look there, then seek some shad}' nook 

 beside the flags and gauzy dragon-flies to 

 dream awhile. 



Happy together, the sun - browned 

 children gather harebells and " silver 

 shekels " in the meadow. Corncrakes 

 " crex, crex." In the west the sun sinks 

 down ; the daisies close, the clover leaves 

 are folded, sleeping. Now is the hush of 

 eve, with noiseless bats abroad and chafers 

 droning past, and flickering brimstone 

 moths. Later the thick-bodied Xoctuas 

 tap, tap against the panes. And through 

 the night " tu, hoo ; whoo, hoo," the 

 tawny o\vl. 



All too soon the days will pass, the 

 days of butterflies resplendent, of glorious 

 peacocks, admirals red, and painted ladies 

 gay, and with the harvest hues the big 

 drone fly will come upon the sunflowers 

 and thistledown float through the air 

 with summer on the wane. But that is 

 not to-morrow, and even supposing, it 

 will all return again, for in each green 

 leaf, in each coloured petal, in every 

 living thing, there is hope, always hope. 

 Oh, liai)py. hap])y summer hours, so sweet 

 and inspnitnig ! 



R. A. St.ug. 



