THE HIGH TIDE OF JOY 81 



miles," as the old song has it, to look upon a hillside 

 abloom with scarlet poppies. And when the sun rays are 

 long and golden, lighting up the hidden fires in the 

 poppy cups, the nodding blooms in the country lanes 

 seem like the red kerchiefs on the heads of shy gypsy 

 maids hasting to keep a tryst. 



The garden log book records that the blackbirds sing 

 in the linden trees, and weeds and white butterflies share 

 joy and sorrow with the festival of the Oriental poppies. 

 Butterfly sport seems a little business; not so little, how- 

 ever, if you divide your heart between Oriental poppies 

 and nasturtiums when the moon shines on midsummer 

 nights. The swashbuckling cavaliers of the poppy world 

 hide a bitterness in their veins to forbid salad-loving 

 caterpillars, and even little flies and ants keep their dis- 

 tance. But the gentle nasturtium falls victim if no 

 butterfly net is out to capture white butterflies and 

 moths, and a "prevention of cruelty to animals member" 

 makes up her mind that it is a case of the fittest to 

 survive. 



Weed pulling must alternate with butterfly hunting 

 until plants are big enough to shadow the earth, and 

 then it must be butterfly hunting until frost. Both exer- 

 cises are admirable to play upon muscles and temper, 

 and more wholesome discipline than many a medieval 

 penance we might name. 



The whistle of the blackbird in the linden, celebrating 



