are ready to burst, there is a sense of movement, of waking after sleep;
the tremendous upward rush of life is almost felt. But how silent the
process is! There is no hurry for achievement, although so much has to
be done--such infinite intricacy to be unfolded and made perfect. The
little stream winding down the bottom turns and doubles on itself; a
dead leaf falls into it, is arrested by a twig, and lies there content.



JUNE



It is a quiet, warm day in June. The wind is westerly, but there is
only just enough of it to waft now and then a sound from the far-off
town, or the dull, subdued thunder of cannon-firing from ships or forts
distant some forty miles or more. Massive, white-bordered clouds, grey
underneath, sail overhead; there was heavy rain last night, and they are
lifting and breaking a little. Softly and slowly they go, and one of
them, darker than the rest, has descended in a mist of rain, blotting
out the ships. The surface of the water is paved curiously in green and
violet, and where the light lies on it scintillates like millions of
stars. The grass is not yet cut, and the showers have brought it up
knee-deep. Its gentle whisper is plainly heard, the most delicate of
all the voices in the world, and the meadow bends into billows, grey,
silvery, and green, when a breeze of sufficient strength sweeps across
it. The larks are so multitudinous that no distinct song can be caught,
and amidst the confused melody comes the note of the thrush and the
blackbird. A constant under-running accompaniment is just audible in
the hum of innumerable insects and the sharp buzz of flies darting past