so sufficient in itself. Not only the days, but life itself
lengthens in summer. I would spread abroad my arms and gather more
of it to me, could I do so.

All the procession of living and growing things passes. The grass
stands up taller and still taller, the sheaths open, and the stalk
arises, the pollen clings till the breeze sweeps it. The bees rush
past, and the resolute wasps; the humble-bees, whose weight swings
them along. About the oaks and maples the brown chafers swarm, and
the fern-owls at dusk, and the blackbirds and jays by day, cannot
reduce their legions while they last. Yellow butterflies, and
white, broad red admirals, and sweet blues; think of the kingdom of
flowers which is theirs! Heavy moths burring at the edge of the
copse; green, and red, and gold flies: gnats, like smoke, around
the tree-tops; midges so thick over the brook, as if you could haul
a netful; tiny leaping creatures in the grass; bronze beetles
across the path; blue dragonflies pondering on cool leaves of
water-plantain. Blue jays flitting, a magpie drooping across from
elm to elm; young rooks that have escaped the hostile shot
blundering up into the branches; missel thrushes leading their
fledglings, already strong on the wing, from field to field. An
egg here on the sward dropped by a starling; a red ladybird
creeping, tortoise-like, up a green fern frond. Finches undulating
through the air, shooting themselves with closed wings, and linnets
happy with their young.

Golden dandelion discs - gold and orange - of a hue more beautiful,
I think, than the higher and more visible buttercup. A blackbird,
gleaming, so black is he, splashing in the runlet of water across
the gateway. A ruddy king-fisher swiftly drawing himself, as you