THE MID-AUGUST FLOWERS. 
Along the roadside, like the flowers of gold 
That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought, 
Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod, 
And the red pennons of the cardinal flowers 
Hang motionless upon their upright staves. 
The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind, 
Wing-weary with its long flight from the south. 
— WHITTIER — Among the Hills. 
In these mid-August days the doors of summer are 
open wide. The tide of life is not far from the full. The 
time is propitious to explore the southern end of the 
lake, and we find ourselves gliding along among the 
islands, and skirting the city’s new Lake Park, admiring 
its situation and looking forward a few years to the days 
when here Nature and Art joining hand to hand shall 
make a perfect union. Half-Moon Pond does not long 
detain us, and a portage is soon made over the highway 
which forms its southern boundary, for the waters of 
Flint’s Pond invite us. And now we are in a shallow 
pool whose surface is strewn with many forms of plant 
life. 
