MIDSUMMER NOON.
Here are some lines I heard a summer or two ago. It seems to me that John Clare—-the man who wrote them, I believe—must have made them when he was near my pulpit, for they tell just how things are here these sultry noons.
"The busy noise of man and brute
Is on a sudden hushed and mute;
Even the brook that leaps along
Seems weary of its merry song,
And, so soft its waters sleep,
Tired silence sinks in slumber deep.
"The taller grass upon the hill,
And spider's threads, are standing still;
The feathers, dropped from moor-hen's wing,
Which to the waters surface cling,
Are steadfast, and as heavy seem
As stones beneath them in the stream."