s own warmth and splendor, knowing that the season
of its strength shall come. When he seems to be growing nearer his
ideal his fervor is at August heat; for him there is no burden in the
heat of the day; tirelessly, joyously, he strives, achieves, attains.
Thus he does his share of the work of the world and adds his mite to
the heritage of its future.

* * * * *

The plants of the woodlands seem strangely unfamiliar since the
springtime. If you have not called upon them during these months that
have fled so swiftly you will almost feel the need of being introduced
to them again. Some of them, such as the Dutchman's breeches and the
bluebell, have gone, like the beautiful children who died when life
was young. Others have grown away from you, like the children you used
to know in the days gone by, so strangely altered now. The little
uvularia, whose leaves were so soft and silky in May and whose blossom
drooped so prettily, like a golden bell, is tall, and branched now,
and its leaves are stiff and papery. Its curious, triangular,
leathery pods have lifted their lids at the top and discharged
their bony seeds. The blood-root, the hepatica, and the wild ginger
are showing big and healthy leaves, but the few lady slippers, here
and there, have faded almost beyond recognition.

When the summer shower patters down among the leaves the music of the
insect orchestra ceases and the performers shield their instruments
with their wings. It passes and gleams of sunshine make jewels of the
raindrops. Then a little breeze brings the aroma of the blossoming
bergamot, wild mint, basil and catnip, filling the air with a spicy
fragrance. The insects tune up; soon the orchestra is at it again.
White cumulus clouds appear, floating lazily in the azure, reflected
by the river below. They chase the sunlight across the amber stubble
of the oat-fields and weave huge pictures which flash and fade among
the swaying tassels of the corn.

[Illustration: "IN PLACID PONDS" (p. 92)]

And oh, the color-splendor of these August days! Here at the top of
the cliff, the orange-flowered milkweed still flames in beauty,
mingled with the pink and lavender bergamot and the varied yellows of
the sunflowers and the rosin weeds. Down nearer the water's edge where
the shelves of the cliff are layered with soil, the virgin's bower
twines clusters of creamy white. On the grassy shore where the river
begins to leave the rocks t