Religious feelings are very variable; but rarely, comparatively, a May-day comes: the flowers are few, and the sky closed, almost generally. Let us, then, use diligently the warm blossom-time, when it is with us, but let us not be dismayed when it passes from the soul. _Perhaps_ the best words we say are those that seemed to us the worst, and the teaching that sank most into the heart was that which we thought weakest and most inadequate; thus may God be pleased, while He deigns to use us and to accept our work, yet to keep us humble. Perhaps the service that was so hard to render, and in which we had so to fight against listlessness and wandering thoughts, may, if still earnest, prevail or please more--who knows?--than that which seemed to fly up at once full-fledged to heaven’s gates. If, though limping, we still hobble on with all our might, we may be really making as much progress as when we seemed to be skimming the ground; for God gives both the wings and the crutches. Of course I am not supposing that the hindrances to love and service arise from want of watchfulness, that let the world creep in, or want of prayer for the Help which alone is sufficient for us. But, generally, we must make up our mind to have more days of weary toiling through the desert sands than of refreshments at “Elim, with its palms and wells”; only, when the rare refreshment comes, it should have braced us for the toilsome march, when we must leave the pleasant spot behind, and labour toilsomely on again. And, if May-days of the soul come but seldom now, and it is oftener difficult than easy to serve God now, fear not, fail not, my Brother or Sister. Rejoice that God gives thee something not easy to do for Him, and think of a time, beyond this brief life, when it will be ever natural and instinctive to love and serve God, when it _will_ be “_always May_.” [Illustration] SUMMER DAYS. [Illustration] “Consider the work of God.” We have passed, from late Spring into Summer. Let us go out into the balmy air and mark what changes have passed over the land since we had our Spring scamper among the fields. It will befit these graver months of the year soberly to walk now. And a quiet sauntering walk over the fields is in truth a delightful thing upon a Summer’s day. How delicious to thread the narrow parting through the deep hay, just ready to be cut, meadow after meadow full of tall, silky, waving grass; here a patch feathery, and of silvery lilac hue; here the rough crowfoot; here the drooping oat-grass; here trembling, delicate pyramids; here miniature bulrushes; and, choice and rare, the graceful quaking grass, with its thin filaments, and its fruit shot with faint purple, and pale green, and light brown. Numberless flowers,--gold, and rose, and crimson, and lilac, and amethyst,--these smile up at you close to the path, and give a sweet hint of stronger colour, far away throughout the hues and many unpronounced tints of the grass.