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July.

IF at any time during the year nature could make us calm and contented it would surely be in July. It seems to be a time of peace and rest and happy dreams, when we neither wish to look back upon a summer faded, or forward to a spring to come, but when for once the present is so fair and brilliant that we are altogether satisfied with it. If only it could be everybody's holiday-month what a bewitching time it would be! If people could forget shops and factories, and counting-houses, and market-places, and lose sight of the fact that there are such things as machines, and scales, and needles, and pens, and tools of any kind for a few days only, then, indeed, the pleasure might be complete. As it is, it is good to think of and to see the streams of excursionists that are constantly going from the hot and busy town to the green and fragrant country where there are sights and sounds to delight the dullest hearts. There surely is no month like July for holidays and recreation. It is true that the kisses of the sun are sometimes rather too fervent to be agreeable; but it is not difficult to hide away from him, for do not the trees hold out inviting arms, and is it not delicious to rest in the cool silence of the forest?

Our Saxon forefathers called this month the foliage month, and now indeed the leaves are in their fullest splendour, and exhibit a sober richness that is altogether enchanting. But though we cannot but admire the perfect beauty of the giant trees, as from a distance we look almost with awe upon their size and strength, it is under them that we love to be. The moss-cushions are so inviting, the sweetness of scent from the pines and the limes, the cool fannings of the graceful ferns, and the flecks of golden light that are dropped about here and there, the loving voices of the birds, and the almost ocean music with which all the trees together chorus their welcome to the refreshing breeze, as well as a thousand other delights, conspire to render the "merrie" but peaceful greenwood a most enjoyable place.

Then there is scarcely a yard of space in all the fields

The corn

and lanes that is not beautiful as a dream. fields are covered with precious wheat, delighting the eye, bearded barley bowing before the wind, and oats shaking their tresses without either scorn or affectation in the movement. There are whole acres gorgeous with scarlet poppies and yellow hawkweeds. There are miles of hedges beautiful with roses, and wild hops, and traveller's joy, and white convolvulus, and privets, and alder-blossom, and honeysuckle. Even dry banks are brightened with golden cistus, and waste places are decorated with fox-glove and mullein, borage and pimpernel; and as for the streams, what with water-lilies, and sedges, and rushes, and forget-me-nots, they are indescribable.

Nor must we forget among the refreshing things of July the showers that sometimes fall. They may be accompanied by flashes of lightning and grand thunder-peals, the big drops may fall upon the leaves with a force that almost makes them shrink; but we cannot see how every thirsty thing drinks eagerly from the down-pouring fountain without singing, or at least thinking—

"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow."

We often hear of landscapes and seascapes; but nothing much is said of skyscapes. And yet why not? They are not to be surpassed by either of the others, and July is a capital time to admire them. Heath and daisies, and curious stones, are well worth looking at, but so are fleecy clouds, and the picture of hills and valleys, cities, and sombre wildernesses, which, to the eye of fancy, seem to be spread out above us. Then what magnificent sunrises and sunsets there are, what splendid effects of blues and crimsons, purples, and greys; and what clear shinings of moon and stars!

Perhaps it would be well for all of us to look up! Surely we cannot help loving our Father very much when He has been so bountiful in His love toward us! And we can scarcely even in July help lifting a wistful gaze, and wondering what the beyond must be, where is our Father's house and our everlasting summer.

The Hay Harvest.

THERE are some words that are pictures in themselves. One of these is haymaking. To see it is to see in imagination green hills and lovely valleys, bees and birds, flowers and sunshine. Haymaking! We are away from dusky rooms, and heavy books; away from the sounds of vehicles upon noisy streets, and all the glare and dust of the town, out in the meadows, where the scythes have moved over the nodding grasses, and laid them low, and where the women are tossing and turning the stems and leaves which the sun has already begun to dry. The air is full of sweet and subtle fragrance, and yet it is so cool and refreshing that tired faces enjoy being kissed by it. The sun is shining brightly in the deep blue sky, but fleecy clouds are playing before it, and their soft shadows steal across the meadows. Only sounds that are harmonious and soothing come to the ear. There is a clear river flowing on whose banks the forget-me-nots are growing, and in whose waters are wonderful reflections of sky-peaks and mountains. Around and about are tall, strong trees, with graceful branches or dense masses of leaves. And in the distance are fields of waving wheat, and whitening oats, and bearded barley. Everywhere there is a softened splendour, and a quiet restfulness that is very grateful to the tired nerves and weary hearts of city-dwellers.

This is the picture that is conjured up in the mind by the word "haymaking." And no doubt it has come between many a hard-working man and his ledger, and many a toiling woman and her work, making them long for the reality, and the chance of listening to whispering leaves and lying upon the cut grass. For everybody loves the country when the days are warm, and we cannot help preferring its beauties to the most gorgeous scenes of the town.

We suppose there never is a haymaking without results. Of course the first and greatest is that plenty of sweet, nutritious food is secured for the cattle during the coming winter; so that, looking up, we can again say, "The eyes

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of all wait upon Thee, and Thou givest them their meat in due season.' Plenty of hay is a thing to be very thankful for in our land, where so much depends upon it.

But, besides this material good, there are many people who, every year, "make hay while the sun shines." An observant person, walking through the hay-meadows, especially about twilight, will be surprised to notice how frequently he meets or passes couples, who appear to have most interesting things to say to each other. And it will be seen that for the most part there is a peculiar brightness in the faces of these pairs of individuals. It may, of course, be caused by the colours of the sunsets, which are singularly beautiful at this time of the year; and it may be caused by the subjects of the conversations, which are evidently so engrossing.

"The heaving sea, the distant hills,

The waning sky, the woods,
With melancholy musings fill

The swelling heart that broods"

at sunset; so perhaps it is this "melancholy musing" which so transforms the faces of the loiterers in the hay meadows. There is, however, nothing of this sort in the children. Haymaking is a splendid time for them, or at least it would be if farmers had not such an inconvenient dislike to having their haycocks pulled to pieces for the purpose of covering the children up. As it is, the meadows are large, and nobody notices how loudly they scream with delight, nor how easy it is to throw one another down upon the soft rows. Those of us who have left childhood's games far behind, and have seen many hay harvests, must needs have some pensive thoughts of those who were with us in those other days, but who are far enough away now. But, happily, all sweet things of the summer time, all bright skies, and fresh breezes, all fair flowers and glorious sunsets, fill us with most consoling hopes of the homeland toward which we are making our way.

"No shadows yonder,
All light and song;
Each day I wonder,

And say, How long

Shall time me sunder

From that dear throng?"

So while the young are rejoicing in their youth many others are glad to think that even the hay harvest is a sign that the time which lies between them and their rest is growing shorter.

Parched Meadows.

EVERYTHING else looks beautiful. The corn-fields covered with plentiful crops wait for the reapers to cut down the ripened grains. The trees are resplendent in summer loveliness, looking their very best, while the myriads of leaves upon them having come to full perfection, but showing no sign of decay, win the eyes of the tourist to dwell upon them with a pleasure that has an element of repose in it too. The broad rivers and narrow streams move peacefully along, while the green leaves and bright flowers of the water-lilies lie upon the surface, and blue forget-me-nots still look like loving eyes out of the tall plants growing on the banks. The hedges begin to be adorned with scarlet berries, and the wild convolvulus clings about the green hawthorn bushes. The orchards are pictures of beauty and prosperity, for the bunches of ripe. fruit hang temptingly from the trees. The forests are silent and shady, and beneath the spreading boughs of the giant trees are lovely spots of green moss, looking like luxuriant couches inviting to repose. And above them all there is the soft moonlight, or the glorious beauty of the sunrise, or the calm majesty of blue skies and fleecy clonds and perfect sunshine, or the melting softness of the summer sunset. Everything is beautiful except the meadows, and they are white and parched.

Is it not often the case in this world some one thing comes to prevent the beauty which is almost but never quite perfect?

What splendid sights we may see in the young life that is round about us! Very fair faces, with clear eyes and smiling lips, and blooming complexions, with well-shaped heads and stately and elegant forms. We look upon them

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