JULY SEVENTEENTH.—There is sadness in the thought that the birds have ceased to sing. July and August are called "mute months," in consequence of the cessation of their songs. All the love of life is over for the year. The nestlings have flown, and the parent birds are tired and worn with watching. They sing most when they work most. Is it so with all of us? They sing at the coming of spring; they are silent at its close.

"Silence girt the woods; no warbling tongue

Talked now unto the echo of the

groves:

Only the curled streams soft chidings kept ;

And little gales that from the greene leafe swept

Dry Summer's dust, in fearefull whisperings stirred,
As loth to waken any singing bird."

The chiff-chaff still sings a little, and dove, and pigeon, and black-cap. When the black-cap is really silent, we miss his song sadly. He is late building his nest, so, perhaps, he sings to us after the other birds have given up; but after all he only sings for a little in the middle of the day. At night we hear the puckeridge, and up the lane the whitethroat and yellow-hammer bid us welcome, and of course the hedge-sparrow sings a little. But oh! we miss the grand chorus morn and eve.

Sweet-peas are still in flower, and the water meadows are pink with willow-herb. Harebells make a blue carpet to the lane on either side, and the commons glow crimson in the sun. I have a bowl of yellow mulleins by my side"My Ladies Candles" the "women calleth them." There is a stone-crop I have just heard of called "welcome-homehusband-though-never-so-drunk." Truly old names are

curious!

JULY EIGHTEENTH.-Perilla, I would have you know that in a very old book I have just read this sorry advice, "Especially shun unripe fruit, and be moderate with cherries." Be moderate with cherries! you who lie under a tree with a basketful by your side, and dip therein as you read some frivolous tale. You live a butterfly life, Perilla; yet I must admit we could not do without butterflies in life's garden; it would be a dull world if every one took things seriously, and flew backwards and forwards to the hive making honey for other people to eat! and had no time to bask in the sunshine or even to admire the flowers from whence we get the honey. But I ought not thus to write to you. I ought to try and turn your attention away from butterflies to bee. You will "frivol," I know, till

"The bat begins with giddy wing

His circuit round the shed and tree
And clouds of dancing gnats to sing
A summer night's serenity."

Even for you the gnats dance! I feel we do too much nowadays; in the rush and tumble of life we miss the sweet whisper of "the still small voice," and we have not time to realise the all-prevailing Presence in a sunset sky or a flower, or even a-butterfly. But for you I copy these well-known lines, Perilla.

"Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble deeds, not dream them, all day long,
And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever
One grand sweet song."

JULY NINETEENTH.-This is my day of lilies.

"Without thee, Love, the Lillies black do seem,

The Roses pale, and Hyacinths I deeme
Not lovely red. But if thou com'st to me
Lillies are white, red Rose, and Jacinths be."

Over my writing-table in my Garden Room hangs a picture of white Madonna lilies in a blue mist of prayer. The centre lily is spotlessly white with golden heart, for a ray of light from Heaven falls across it. The others are white, but not perfectly white; for the dimness of earth is there. "I stand in the light reflecting the Light." This is what my lilies tell me.

JULY TWENTIETH.-To Bryant I turn me to describe my feelings in my dear Kalendar.

"It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass.
All is silent save the faint

And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on wing."

I long for the summer wind, and at last it comes. green boughs rustle.

"He is come,

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing in their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the roadside and the borders of the brook,
Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkles as he comes.

The

Poor weary flowers, it broke my heart to see them. The orange heads of alstromaria bent to the ground, for their stalks were too tired to hold them. My roses looked worn and limp, and I took no pleasure in wandering in my rosary. Now that the soft breeze has cheered them, and whispered of coming dew to give them courage, I will begin to water them from my dipping well, and my garden will boast of a cheerier aspect. I cannot bear to see the dear flowers fading, and they boast of but little courage; they lose heart at once, which is a foolish thing to do in this world of ours.

JULY TWENTY-FIRST.-This is Sweet-pea Tide; I have bowls of white, and pink, and mauve. I like them much better grown in hedges of different colours. They always want some of their own green mixed with them to make them quite lovely. The beauty of sweet-peas is lost when put in a tight bunch in a small vase.

"Here are sweet peas on tip-toe for a flight,
With wings of gentle flush or delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things
To bind them all about with tiny wings."

Dear sweet-peas, they—

-KEATS.

"... Catch the neighbouring shrub

With clasping tendrils, and invert his branch,
Else unadorn'd, with many a gay festoon
And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well

The strength they borrow with the grace they lend."

-COWPER.

I love the following lines so much that I must write them down for Sweet-pea Tide, though by a writer of to-day. I hope he will not mind.