Yes, the year seems at a standstill now, and sobered down, and sedate, and hushed. Above all, it is silent. Those ecstatic melodies, those “pæans clear,” that rang out through the groves--the song of the willow-wren, the thrush, the blackbird, the blackcap, the nightingale--all are silent. Even the little robin has no voice for Summer days; only the yellow-hammer reiterates its short, plaintive, monotonous note on the dusty wayside hedge. “Dear is the morning gale of Spring, And dear th’ autumnal eve; But few delights can Summer bring A poet’s crown to weave. “Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry, And ever Fancy’s wing Speeds from beneath her cloudless sky To Autumn or to Spring. “Sweet is the infant’s waking smile, And sweet the old man’s rest; But middle age by no fond wile, No soothing calm is blest.” Sweet Summer days! I am far from meaning to depreciate you, or to deny to you the need of much beauty and calm delight; but it is true, nevertheless, and must be conceded, that the poet’s complaint has some ground of reason. We miss something in Summer days: it must ever be so in this world. Attainment must ever disappoint: reality is another thing from the image of our dreams. The finished painting is not all that the first rough sketch hinted and shadowed out. Spring may be high-spirited and eager--Summer must ever be grave, and hushed, and sedate. And what then? Something is missed: but is nothing found? What is the year doing in the gravity, and monotony, and silence of Summer days? Our life is much like that of the year. It has its Spring and its Summer, its Autumn and its Winter. We, too, pass out of youth, and excitement, and impetuosity, and hope, into manhood, and gravity, and calmness--and disappointment. What, then, is the year doing in this stage of its life? If we look aside from our own experience to its example, what does that example teach us? The question, “What is the year doing?” suggests the answer to our inquiries. The year _is doing_. It is gravely, quietly, perseveringly _at work_. And earnest, hearty, steady work at that which God has given us to do--work hearty, if a little dull and monotonous--this is the lesson taught by Summer days. Work, steady work, dry, monotonous work, aye, this is the lesson of Life’s Summer; this succeeds its dream-time, this precedes its rest. Yes, in truth, the Spring anticipation and eager energy have gone. The Autumn repose has not yet come. The year is gravely, and steadily, and prosaically at work now; its ardour and ecstasies calmed, its wild impossible hopes toned down, its grace of blossom vanished. All vegetation is busy, maturing seed and fruit, sober grain and useful hay. The earth, like her child, the ant, “Provideth her meat in the summer, And gathereth her food in the harvest.”