I 9 4 



IN SUMMER. 



Is it spring ? I would catch the first whis- 

 perings of the soft south wind, and hug the pre- 

 cious secret known, save to the flowers, only to 

 myself. And, as the days roll by, would watch 

 the opening leaf-buds one by one, and greet the 

 first blossoms peeping above the dead year's scat- 

 tered leave's. Is this a waste of time ? If so, how 

 is it, then, that the earliest spring flowers need 

 but to be taken to town to set the people, one 

 and all, agape ? Is it nothing to brighten the dull 

 eyes of the weary toilers in the city ? Verily, a 

 violet plucked in February preaches a refreshing 

 sermon. And, yet again, when a faint shimmer 

 of green tints the wide landscape, I would catch 

 the earliest note of the returning bird as it floats 

 across the wide meadow or rings with startling 

 clearness through the wood. Perchance along 

 the river's shore I would hear the heaped ice 

 crack and groan as the breath of Spring snaps 

 its bonds and sends this rugged gift of Winter 

 whirling to the sea. 



Is it summer? I would catch the fragrant 

 breeze at dawn, and mark the day's beauteous 

 progress step by step ; gather good cheer from 

 the merry thrushes' song, and chirp as lustily as 

 the robin though my task be long. Even at 

 noontide, be it never so sultry, I would take 

 heart from the brave field-sparrow's hopeful 

 tone, and lighten my labor with the anticipation 



