214 AUGUST. 



child of the good Shunamite went out to his 

 father to the reapers. And he said unto his 

 lather, My head, my head ! And he said to 

 a lad, Carry him to his mother. And when he 

 had taken him, and brought him to his mother, 

 he sate on her knees till noon, and then died." 

 2 Kings, c. iv. 18—20. 



Let no one say it is not a season of happiness 

 to the toiling peasantry ; I know that it is. In 

 the days of boyhood I have partaken their har- 

 vest labours, and listened to the overflowings 

 of their hearts as they sate amid the sheaves 

 beneath the fine blue sky, or among the rich 

 herbage of some green headland beneath the 

 shade of a tree, while the cool keg plentifully 

 replenished the horn, and sweet after exertion 

 were the contents of the harvest-field basket. 

 I know that the poor harvesters are amongst 

 the most thankful contemplators of the bounty 

 of Providence, though so little of it falls to their 

 share. To them harvest comes as an annual 

 festivity. To their healthful frames, the heat of 

 the open fields, which would oppress the languid 

 and relaxed, is but an exhilarating and pleasant 

 glow. The inspiration of the clear sky above, 

 and of scenes of plenty around them, and the 

 very circumstance of their being drawn from 

 their several dwellings at this bright season, 

 open their hearts and give a life to their memo- 



