THE CLOCK STRIKES ONE 3 



are quiet in repose. The eyes of the earth are heavy. 

 The air is asleep. Yet the round shadow of my oak 

 begins to shift. The cattle do not move ; the pasture 

 still sleeps under the wide, white glare. 



But already the noon is passing — to-day I see the 

 signs of coming autumn everywhere. 



Of the four seasons of the year summer is the * 

 shortest, and the one we are least acquainted with. 

 Summer is hardly a pause between spring and au- 

 tumn, simply the hour of the year's noon. 



We can be glad with the spring, sad with the au- 

 tumn, eager with the winter ; but it is hard for us to 

 go softly, to pause and to be still with the summer ; 

 to rest on our wings a little like the broad-winged 

 hawk yonder, far up in the wide sky. 



But now the hawk is not still. The shadow of « 

 my oak begins to lengthen. The hour is gone ; and, 

 wavering softly down the languid air, falls a yellow 

 leaf from a slender birch near by. I remember, too, 

 that on my way through the woodlot I frightened a 

 small flock of robins from a pine ; and more than 

 a week ago the swallows were gathering upon the 

 telegraph wires. So quickly summer passes. It 

 was springtime but yesterday, it seems ; to-day the 

 autumn is here. 



It is a July day. At dawn the birds were singing, 

 fresh and full-throated almost as in spring. Then 

 the sun burned through the mist, and the chorus 

 ceased. Now I do not hear even the chewink and the 



