June 1 



T is too wet now to go out in the very early 

 morning, for this is the season of heavy dews and 

 soft white mists. Every morning the valley is 

 filled with white clouds, which mark the river 

 bed and sometimes hide the hills as well. 

 The grass and trees are drenched almost 

 till noon, and even in the middle of the 

 morning if I venture down my gully to 

 gather ferns I /eel like the young man in 

 the "Elegy" 



Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 

 There is a great charm in feeling like a 

 person in a poem, and there is a distinct 

 joy in wading through dew-wet grass and 

 shaking down the drops from the laden 

 branches ; but for a good, comfortable bush walk the afternoon 

 is the best time just now. 



So as early as possible after lunch I set out. I turned my 

 back on the gully, where now there is nothing to be found but 

 maiden-hair, crossed the railway line, and struck out to the 

 east. There was a warmth in the air ; not the decadent warmth 

 of an unseasonable autumn day, but a gentle, caressing glow 

 that was almost a foretaste of spring. Perhaps it was the 



HONEY-FLOWER 



