PART III. 



IN SUMMER. 



01 Noisome 



THE whispering breeze that at sunrise calls 

 me out of doors is laden now with the matchless 

 odor of the blooming grape. Every draught of 

 the vinous air intoxicates and the eye rests upon 

 the brilliant landscape, but is scarce content. 

 A curious feeling of indecision meets me at the 

 very outset. Meadow and upland are alike ur- 

 gent ; field and forest offer their choicest gifts ; 

 rugged rocks and sparkling river both beckon to 

 me. Whither, then, of a bright June morning, 

 should the rambler stroll ? For is it not true 

 that beauty, when in bewildering confusion, 

 ceases to be beautiful ? When a thousand birds, 

 as a great cloud, shut out the sun, they are but 

 a cloud ; but a single one, perched upon a tree, 

 is a marvel of grace and beauty. So, the sloping 

 hillside and the weedy meadows, brilliant with 



