. The book of months . OK OF MONTHS as evening is beginning to fall and the birds,which were mute in the heat of the day, aretuning up for even-song; again the thrush is onthe apple-bough, and an occasional silver fluteof a note tells me that mating-time is not yetover with the nightingales. The bees still huntin the drowsy and closing flowers, and swiftsstill race with shrill whistlings through the di-vided air, but every moment the stillness of even-ing gains on the beautiful noises of life, like awaveless tide creeping up the wrinkled sand ofthe sea-shore. Already the sun is low, and soonth
. The book of months . OK OF MONTHS as evening is beginning to fall and the birds,which were mute in the heat of the day, aretuning up for even-song; again the thrush is onthe apple-bough, and an occasional silver fluteof a note tells me that mating-time is not yetover with the nightingales. The bees still huntin the drowsy and closing flowers, and swiftsstill race with shrill whistlings through the di-vided air, but every moment the stillness of even-ing gains on the beautiful noises of life, like awaveless tide creeping up the wrinkled sand ofthe sea-shore. Already the sun is low, and soonthe lengthening shadows will cease to be shadowsand the velvet blue of the night will darken inthe turquoise-colored skies. Already the night-flowering stocks and the tobacco-plant are open-ing, and as they open spread sweet webs of in-cense low-lying from their heaviness over thegrass, and the pale moths begin to hover overthe flowers. Dusk comes, and its cool benedic-tion rests and recuperates the day-wearied earth,172. JULY and it and its little inhabitants kneel with bowedheads a moment, like some child at its mothersknee, drinking in quiet. The pause has come,day is over, it is not yet quite time to sleep; bestill then, cease to move, or worry, or think. Lieopen to the air and the stars, let your life pause,breathe deep, make no effort, and the thrushand the stars and the green things will com-municate with that which is within you by directways. Then, as dark deepens into night, thoughtcomes back, but thought, too, is driven inward,going home to roost, and for a little while, asI walk in the dewy grass by the sweet-peas, Mar-gery will be leaning on my arm talking to meof the days that were—talking, too, in a way Ido not yet fully understand, of the days that willbe. Outside on the road I can hear unknownfootsteps passing up and down, and every nowand then she seems to say to me, Hush!Listen! but the steps pass on. It is not
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