The Rambles of an Idler 



but neither the month nor the season calls for 

 a funeral hymn. It is only wise to say ' ' Grood- 

 bye," expecting a quick return. With the eye 

 of faith we can detect a ray of light in all the 

 thick darkness we meet. Looking backward, it 

 was but yesterday that it was August, as it now 

 is, and why, looking forward, should it be a 

 longer time before it comes again? This is a 

 perfect afternoon, and if the last of such for 

 the passing season, it is not a long waiting, and 

 never an idle, objectless one until August comes 

 again. Nature is a long series of events crowd- 

 ing each other, not as single beads on an inter- 

 minably long string. A perfect afternoon, typi- 

 cal August, with activity everywhere, but not 

 that nervous hurrying to and fro of early sum- 

 mer. Leisured activity, rather; the studied 

 movement of age, not the rash impetuosity of 

 youth. We see, in June, more than we can com- 

 prehend. In August we comprehend more than 

 we actually see. Facts so crowded we fail to 

 detect their significance, in early summer; sig- 

 nificance and fewer facts, now. June — August. 

 It is and it has been. June, the present; Au- 

 gust, the past tense of summer. Eecall the sea- 

 son in mid-winter and see how true this is. 



264 



