THE COMING OF SUMMER 



yellow rock-rose and the sweet viburnum are in 

 bloom; the bird chorus is still full and animated; 

 the keys of the red maple strew the ground, and the 

 cotton of the early everlasting drifts upon the air." 

 For several days there was but little change. " Get- 

 ting toward the high tide of summer. The air well 

 warmed up. Nature in her jocund mood, still, all 

 leaf and sap. The days are idyllic. I lie on my 

 back on the grass in the shade of the house, and 

 look up to the soft, slowly moving clouds, and to 

 the chimney swallows disporting themselves up 

 there in the breezy depths. No hardening in vege- 

 tation yet. The moist, hot, fragrant breath of the 

 fields — mingled odor of blossoming grasses, clover, 

 daisies, rye — the locust blossoms, dropping. What 

 a humming about the hives; what freshness in the 

 shade of every tree; what contentment in the flocks 

 and herds! The springs are yet full and cold; the 

 shaded watercourses and pond margins begin to 

 draw one." Go to the top of the hill on such a 

 morning, say by nine o'clock, and see how unspeak- 

 ably fresh and full the world looks. The morning 

 ishadows yet linger everywhere, even in the sun- 

 shine; a kind of blue coolness and freshness, the 

 vapor of dew tinting the air. 



Heat and moisture, the father and mother of all 

 that lives, when June has plenty of these, the in- 

 crease is sure. 



Early in June the rye and wheat heads begin to 

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