actly to
drink it or inhale it, but in some way to make it part of me that I
might live it.

The July grasses must be looked for in corners and out-of-the-way
places, and not in the broad acres--the scythe has taken them there.
By the wayside on the banks of the lane, near the gateway--look, too,
in uninteresting places behind incomplete buildings on the mounds cast
up from abandoned foundations where speculation has been and gone.
There weeds that would not have found resting-place elsewhere grow
unchecked, and uncommon species and unusually large growths appear.
Like everything else that is looked for, they are found under unlikely
conditions. At the back of ponds, just inside the enclosure of woods,
angles of corn-fields, old quarries, that is where to find grasses, or
by the sea in the brackish marsh. Some of the finest of them grow by
the mere road-side; you may look for others up the lanes in the deep
ruts, look too inside the hollow trees by the stream. In a morning you
may easily garner together a great sheaf of this harvest. Cut the
larger stems aslant, like the reeds imitated deep in old green glass.
You must consider as you gather them the height and slenderness of the
stems, the droop and degree of curve, the shape and colour of the
panicle, the dusting of the pollen, the motion and sway in the wind.
The sheaf you may take home with you, but the wind that was among it
stays without.

_Richard Jeffries._

WORN-OUT TYPES

It is now a complaint of quite respectable antiquity that the types in
which humanity was originally set up by a humour-loving Providence are
worn out and require recasting. The surface of society has become
smooth. It ought to be a bas-relief--it is a plane. Even a Chaucer (so
it is said) could make nothing of us as we wend our way to Brighton.
We have tempers, it is true--bad ones for the most part; but no
humours to be in or out of. We are all far too much alike; we do not
group well; we only mix. All this, and more, is alleged against us. A
cheerfully disposed person might perhaps think that, assuming the
prevailing type to be a good, plain, readable one, this uniformity
need not necessarily be a bad thing; but had he the courage to give
expression to this opinion he would most certainly be at once told,
with that mixture of asperity and contempt so properly reserved for
those who take cheerful views of anything, that without well-defined
types of character there can be