Burlington weekly free press. [volume] (Burlington, Vt.) 1866-1928, 1882-07-21
MIDST N MER.

The sun regns. Over the swcltering
fields, on the unprotected hilsides, even In
the depths of the sultry woods, his empire is
supreme. There IS no retreat from the des'
potism of his presence. In vain all nature
seeks refuge from his beams. She calls
upon the wind to help her, and the wind
blows; but it is like breath from an oven.
She spreads the umbragc OF her trees, ike
thousand sun-shades, over the land; but In
vain; even beneath the trees there is sui
triness which ia harder to bear than the d. |
rect rays of the sum- She bathes her brow In
lakes and rivers and woodland brooks, and
lies painting beside the water. There is no
relief. Wood, field and stream are all prov
lnces of the sun Even night confesses his
sway. Slowly she comes up from her bower
in the ives, with her pitcher Of dew and her
sheaf of shadows dropping with stars, and
looks down in pity upon the fainting earth
Fam would she ease the sufferer, but she
knows that she must wait. The sun still
fingers, 10th to resign his sway even for
few hours. Not until after midnight can the
parched earth begin to feel the blessed cool
ness of the dew, and cover her head for a
brief respite with the mantle of shadow.
But however much we may divert our
own uncomfortable reflections by dilating
upon the sufferngs of nature. we must con-
fcss that sentent misery finds but poor COM
fort in the company of inanimate mis-
cry. 1t may make n pleasant picture
for the mind to conceive OF nature as
Il wilted maiden in cambria dress
anguishing beside brook, but when we
come back to practical reality, and remind
ourselves that 1t is only grass and trees and
flowers nothing, in fact, but vegetable
growth-,hat we are sentimentalizing about,
we change the strain, and commence imme-
diately TO fan and commiseratc ourselves.
The fact is, we don't know for certain but
what nature, as whole, enjoys midsummer
heat She seems to thrive under it, at any
rate, and never looks so fair and blooming
and attractive aud well dressed as now. 1t
is human beings who really suffer from con-
gesiion of the thermometer, and they alone
have the power and the right to grumble.
Nor is their grumbling all a waste of breath
and an Improbable thing. Some OF the
sweetest things that have ever been said or
eung have come from musical grumblers,
luxuriating in the shade. There is poetic
atmosphere in hot Summers day-if one
can only have leisure to lean his back against
tree, and vegetate, and drink IN the inspira-
ton of it. The sun on the grass is one
thing. You never noticed the visible power
of actlnism before. There is a reality about
the beating of the beams on the blades OF
grass. You never saw sunbeam before
that is one reflected from yon santng spear,
of grass. 1t is undergoing process of trans
formation, invisible but none the
less actual. And yet neither the blade
of grass appears to be absorbing and
receiving tissue nor the sunbeam yielding the
brightness and force. That is the poetry of
the sun on the grass. There is no gross ma
tcrial exposure of the process, and yet we
know by its results that it is going on. There
is poetry, too, in the leaves of the trees. If
you will lie back and look up into the leafy
bower which shields you from the sun you
will see IA thousand little mOvings and STIR
rings that come not from the lazy passage
of the breeze, but from the life and feeling
of the leaves themselves. There is cramp-
ed fellow, that gradually and with infinite
Difference and gentlencss withdraws himself
from the slumbering circumference Of
his brother leaf, and permits the latter to fall
and swing upon his twig like fairy in u
cradle. There is a leaf stretching itself. 1t
has been drinking sunlight till its quarters are
too cramped. 1t slowly adjusts itself in a
new position Il roomer one, and laughs and
mods to the breeze with delightful restful-
ness and exchange of confidence. There is
a whole community OF little lives in the
tree. You can imagine what you will-you
can not help seeing something suggestive.
That is the poetry Of the leaves. Then
there is the poetry of the air scnsuous,
sleepy rhythm to all the thoughts which
pass through your mind. Perhaps brook
| is tinkling over the stones near by. That
is running verse. The birds are almost 81
lent They, like you, are gathering materials
| for song. An occasional twitser, or an i'm.
patient hurst of melody, gives you Their
| theme
So much for the consultations OF the human
grumblcr, and the use he sometimes makes
l,f I 10 n, boat N, lNply hr
bright side flrst-because then, instead Of
going around to the dark side of things, we
sometimes turn the dark side round to us
The grumbler has his discomforts of course
or else he would not grumble. Ninety If
the shade is one of them-in the shade, mine
you, the coolest place man can find in ho
weather, the ultimate atmospheric tribuna
beyond which there is no appeal. Some ont
may suggest the water. Water is not til,
proper element of the human animal. l
may be very cool and nice for an hour or 80
but we never yet heard of anybody who wa
so warm as to wish to spend whole day
with the fishes. Then there is that yer,
great discomfort, in one sense, and comfor
in another-laziness II "A man has got t
work in midsummer he has an inalienabl
right TO grumble If he is free to indulg
himself in leisure, let him be thankful ant
hold his tongue. Loss of appetite lie a dis
comfort to some-to those who live TO eat
but corresponding comfort to those WIN
eat TO live So we might go on through tn
whole catalogue of midsummer ills, and hn'
them all pivotal and susceptible Of bein
turned to the sunny side Of life. So, instea
of drawing down our faces to correspon
with an equal frightening Of the column O
mercury, let us turn the feverish and dlscon
tented instrument to the wall and deyoi