It has been said that August is the least interesting
of the months and that people fly to the sea because the inland air is hot and tired. Nature is still. Nothing grows and nothing decays. Some truth there often is in the argument ; but it does not apply to this present August. Seldom was a country more richly adorned with harvest scenes ; and yet there is no sign of excessive dryness. The dews are heavy, and the air sweet and fresh. The clovers begin already to cover the grey stubbles with green, though harvest is not half finished. Many birds are still in song, and the banked trees of the wood and fringes of the hedgerows are still untouched by yellow deCay. Those who have left England have lost much ; and at the sea one grudges the half of land that is lost.