THE JULY GRASS. 
A JULY fly went sideways over the long grass. His 
wings made a burr about him like a net, beating so fast 
they wrapped him round with a cloud. Every now and 
then, as he flew over the trees of grass, a taller one than 
common stopped him, and there he clung, and then the 
eye had time to see the scarlet spots—the loveliest 
colour—on his wings. The wind swung the bennet and 
loosened his hold, and away he went again over the 
grasses, and not one jot did he care if they were Poa or 
Festuca, or Bromus or Hordeum, or any other name. 
Names were nothing to him; all he had to do was to 
whirl his scarlet spots about in the brilliant sun, rest 
when he liked, and go on again. I wonder whether it is 
a joy to have bright scarlet spots, and to be clad in the 
purple and gold of life; is the colour felt by the creature 
that wears it? The rose, restful of a dewy morn before 
the sunbeams have topped the garden wall, must feel a 
joy in its own fragrance, and know the exquisite hue of 
its stained petais. The rose sleeps in its beauty. 
The fly whirls his scarlet-spotted wings about and 
splashes himself with sunlight, like the children on the 
sands. He thinks not of the grass and sun; he does 
not heed them at all—and that is why he is so happy— 
any more than the barefoot children ask why the sea is 
there, or why it does not quite dry up when it ebbs. 
He is unconscious ; ‘he lives without thinking about ’ 
