Hail and sleet were things lost
in the distance of the year--storming away in some far-off region of
the north, unknown to the summer generation. The butterflies, with
wings looking as if all the flower-painters of fairyland had wiped
their brushes upon them in freakful yet artistic sport, came forth in
the freedom of their wills and the faithful ignorance of their minds.
The birds, the poets of the animal creation--what though they never get
beyond the lyrical!--awoke to utter their own joy, and awake like joy
in others of God's children. The birds grew silent, because their
history laid hold upon them, compelling them to turn their words into
deeds, and keep eggs warm, and hunt for worms. The butterflies died of
old age and delight. The green life of the earth rushed up in corn to
be ready for the time of need. The corn grew ripe, and therefore weary,
hung its head, died, and was laid aside for a life beyond its own. The
keen sharp old mornings and nights of autumn came back as they had come
so many thousand times before, and made human limbs strong and human
hearts sad and longing. Winter would soon be near enough to stretch out
a long forefinger once more, and touch with the first frosty shiver
some little child that loved summer, and shrunk from the cold.
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