The Rambles of an Idler 



It is not strange that as the month passes we 

 often find ourselves in a profoundly medi- 

 tative mood. I remember, as a little child, how 

 eagerly I watched the preparations for the 

 promised cakes for which I longed, and oh, how 

 distant seemed the time when the dough was in 

 the oven. July, August, September; these are 

 the days when Nature is in the oven and the 

 rambler must wait from now — the end of June 

 — until October, before the feast is ready. 



July, August, September! I know nothing 

 so fitting to say of them as that in ninety days 

 it will be October. 



THE CAT-BIRD 



A singing bird, an oak tree's shade and grass 

 That yet unwilted greens the gentle slope, 

 The leisured clouds that loiter as they pass, 

 To eare a stranger and un-plagued by hope; 



Grant, kindly Tate, like blessing; not deny; 



All else, how little worth, in mid-July. 



The fervent fields aglow with summer heat. 

 The steaming marshes reeking in their mist. 

 Languid, the rippling river's pulses beat 

 Where tide and meadow-shore have heartless kissed; 

 They woo me not to wander hence, for I 

 rind all that tempts me, here, in mid-July. 



90 



