The Black Swans 



attends the April shower. A sense 

 of peace and plenty fills the spirit 

 when the wheat and oat fields and 

 the meadows yield their harvests, but 

 today the rustling corn blades and the 

 brown and silent wood-lands speak 

 soothingly of rest and sleep and finished 

 tasks. 



I had not gone far before I overtook 

 an old friend of mine whose business 

 this particular day was evidently the 

 same as my own — the draining of the 

 few remaining drops still hanging upon 

 the lips of a season's emptied cup. I 

 found him busy with a bunch of 

 goldenrod that had survived most of 

 its companions of the roadside and was 

 still fresh and full of life. I stopped 

 and watched the busy gleaner at his 

 belated work. I fancy he was thinking 

 that the sweet clovers of August were 

 rather better producers for his par- 

 ticular purpose, but his persistence 

 apparently met with some reward, and 

 presently he spread his wings. 

 [190] 



