LEAF AND TENDRIL 



field, or her deeper and cooler retreats in the woods. 

 On the slopes, on the opposite side of the river, 

 there have been for months under the morning and 

 noon sun only slight shadow tracings, a fretwork of 

 shadow lines; but some morning in May I look 

 across and see solid masses of shade falling from the 

 trees athwart the sloping turf. How the eye revels 

 in them! The trees are again clothed and in their 

 right minds; myriad leaves rustle in promise of 

 the coming festival. Now the trees are sentient 

 beings; they have thoughts and fancies; they stir 

 with emotion; they converse together; they whisper 

 or dream in the twilight; they struggle and wrestle 

 with the storm. 



" Caught and cufi'd by the gale," 



Tennyson says. 



Summer always comes in the person of June, 

 with a bunch of daisies on her breast and clover 

 blossoms in her hands. A new chapter in the season 

 is opened when these flowers appear. One says to 

 himself, " Well, I have lived to see the daisies again 

 and to smell the red clover." One plucks the first 

 blossoms tenderly and caressingly. What memories 

 are stirred in the mind by the fragrance of the one 

 and the youthful face of the other! There is nothing 

 else like that smell of the clover: it is the maidenly 

 breath of summer; it suggests all fresh, buxom, 

 rural things. A field of ruddy, blooming clover, 

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