A Summer Day.


THE sun is just rising, painting the hill-tops

and tall trees in brighter colors than they are

accustomed to wear during the day. Merry

birds have already sung their sweetest songs

over and over again in their attempt to wake

slumberers from their dreams. As the sun

rolls higher in the sky, the dew-drops that

gently rested upon the grass and flowers, 

sparkle with a brilliancy unsurpassed by

 anything which art can produce. The bright

 sunbeams give the blossoms a good-morning 

kiss, and then draw away the glistening drops

 that have reposed during the night in their

 bosoms. The waterfall continues its incessant

 hum as it sends up a silvery spray to mingle

 with the cloudlets above. The gentle morning

 breezes ruffle the bosom of the lakelets, and 

send their ripples dancing to the opposite shore.

 Morning glories and ten o'clocks open their 

bright eyes to greet the sun, and court the 

presence of the humming-birds who are now in

 search of their morning meal.


Now it is sultry noon. But through the

forest's deepest shade the rippling waters of

the rivulets flow on, and, with their gurgling

and babbling, invite the weary traveler to rest

on their mossy banks. The harvesters seek

the benevolent shade of the wide-spreading

branches of the trees in which to "take their

nooning." The heat is intense and oppressive,

and the song of the waterfall, or the rustling

of the leaves, is a welcome sound to the weary

workman and dusty traveler. Yonder is a

herd of cattle standing midway in the marshy

pool lazily brushing away the buzzing flies.

The busy bee, knowing that summer days will

not last forever, and that flowers bloom but

to fade, passes in and out of the clover fields,

improving the golden moments in storing

away a rich harvest of honey for future use.

But while the merciless sun is sending down

a flood of scorching rays, one may be refreshed

at the mere thought of a country where heat

will not oppress its inhabitants.


The shades of evening are drawing on.

Stars already begin to twinkle in the horizon.

The sinking sun has given the fleecy clouds a

lining of pink and salmon. The shadows have

lengthened and widened until they finally “mingle

in one," and overspread the grassy plain.

Drooping flowers and plants are now freshened

and enlivened by the gently-falling dew.

Night-hawks and bats are now on the wing,

crossing and re-crossing the mead on a mission

known only to themselves. Whippoorwills

are filling the woods with gushes of sweet

melody. Katydids and crickets are piping

away in full concert, not caring whether or

not their "melodious strains" are welcome to

the listener, so long as their relish for music

is satiated.

Many of our readers are now in the morning

of life; some have arrived at the noon

mark; while the shades of evening are closing

over others. A bright morning is soon to

dawn upon us that will not merge into sultry

noon, and pass on to the evening shadows.

The fairest summer morning will not compare

with that morning that knows no night. The

bountiful Creator still permits some roses to

bloom by the wayside, floods of rich music to

greet our ears, and has reserved some sweets

for us to taste; but we are not to make this

our abiding place. No; they are only to comfort

us on the way to the heavenly land.