46 In Apathetic August 



eyes, or see it with open jaws in which is 

 struggling a writhing, squealing, slippery black 

 catfish, you will realize that marsh, mud, 

 weeds, dark pools of stagnant water, snap- 

 pers, snakes, catfish, and scuttle-bugs are an 

 admirably blended whole. As separate entU 

 ties you may pass them by unheeded, but not 

 when associated and Nature is the artist that 

 has drawn the pidlure. 



I have long preached no other dolrine 

 than that of an apathetic August, but it is all 

 a myth. Would that other preachers would 

 be as honest in their convictions, though 

 they be as changeable as weather-cocks. 

 There is no real cessation of aflivity. Life 

 has merely retired from the outskirts of crea- 

 tion, and bids us plunge into the interior if 

 we would still be spectators. Looking out 

 from the knoll for I still lingered in the 

 shade of the old sassafras there was literally 

 nothing to be seen above or about the weeds 

 except great bronze and green dragon-flies. 

 But if these were there, other forms of life 

 must also have been present. Dragon-flies 

 do not feed on flowery sweets. Butterflies, 

 too, tossed themselves ecstatically about, and 

 clicked their pretty wings when angry ; but 



