Pitches his load reluctant; the faint steer,
Lashing his sides, draws sulkily along
The slow, encumbered wain in midday heat.”
Such is the picture of this month, drawn by an old English poet. With us the heat is still greater than in England; yet the farmers keep busily at work in the fields; and, to say truth, it is about as comfortable to be at work, as to be idle.
Leigh Hunt, speaking of this month in England, says, “The heat in this month is greatest on account of its duration. There is a sense of heat and quiet all over nature. The birds are silent. The little brooks are dried up. The earth is parched. The shadows of the trees are particularly grateful, heavy and still. The oaks, which are freshest, because latest in leaf, form noble, clumpy canopies, looking, as you lie under them, of a strong emulous green, against the blue sky. The traveller delights to cut across the country, through the fields and the leafy lanes, where nevertheless the flints sparkle with heat. The cattle get into the shade, or stand in the water. The active and air-cutting swallows, now beginning to assemble for migration, seek their prey among the shady places, where the insects, though of differently compounded natures, ‘fleshless and bloodless,’ seem to get for coolness, as they do at other times for warmth. The sound of insects is likewise the only audible sound now, increasing rather than lessening the sense of quiet by its gentle contrast. The bee now and then sweeps across the ear with his gravest tone. The gnats
‘Their murmuring mall trumpets sounden wide,’
and here and there, the little musician of the grass touches forth his tricksy note.
‘The poetry of earth is never dead;
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run