A SUMMER AFTERNOON 131 
steep the earth and gladden it in the first hours 
of day’s decline! The exuberant rays reflect 
and multiply themselves from every leaf and 
blade ; the cows lie upon the hillside, with their 
broad, peaceful backs painted into the land- 
scape; the hum of insects, “tiniest bells on 
the garment of silence,” fills the air; the gor- 
geous butterflies doze upon the thistle-blooms 
till they almost fall from the petals; the air is 
full of warm fragrance from the wild-grape 
clusters ; the grass is burning hot beneath the 
naked feet in sunshine, and cool as water in 
the shade. Diving from this overhanging 
beam, —for Ovid evidently meant that Midas 
to be cured must dive, — 
“ Subde caput, corpusque simul, simul elue crinem,” — 
one finds as kindly a reception from the water 
as in childish days, and as safe a shelter in the 
green dressing-room afterwards ; and the pa- 
tient wherry floats near by, in readiness for a 
reémbarkation. 
Here a word seems needed, unprofessionally 
and non-technically, upon boats, —these being 
the sole seats provided for occupant or visitor 
in my outdoor study. When wherries first 
appeared in this peaceful inland community, 
the novel proportions occasioned remark. Face- 
tious bystanders inquired sarcastically whether 
