HE garden suffers from the long 

 drought in this last week of July, 

 though I water it faithfully. The sun 

 burns so hot that the earth dries again 

 ^^ in an hour, after the most thorough 

 drenching I can give it. The patient flowers seem 

 to be standing in hot ashes, with the air full of fire 

 above them. The cool breeze from the sea flutters 

 their drooping petals, but does not refresh them in 

 the blazing noon. Outside the garden on the island 

 slopes the baked turf cracks away from the heated 

 ledges of rock, and all the pretty growths of Sor- 

 rel and Eyebright, Grasses and Crowfoot, Poten- 

 tilla and Lion's-tongue, are crisp and dead. All 

 things begin again to pine and suffer for the 

 healing touch of the rain. 



Toward noon on this last day of the month the 

 air darkens, and around the circle of the horizon 

 the latent thunder mutters low. Light puffs of 

 wind eddy round the garden, and whirl aloft the 

 weary Poppy petals high in air, till they wheel 

 like birds about the chimney-tops. Then all is 

 quiet once more. In the rich, hot sky the clouds 

 105 



