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46 elegantly represented wine as a recompense given by the deities for the misery brought upon mankind by the general deluge. Fill, then, a bumper from the taper-necked bottle, and let us drink to the future vintage of the Marne. H. R.

is July! In how many different tones is that exclamation made! On the whole, I believe July is not popular in England. The promise of spring is gone, and the peculiar pleasures of autumn are far off; and the first rich summer treats are in June. July is too hot, we are told. July is rainy—at least, after St. Swithin’s day. July is too green, with its massive dark foliage—its uniform oaks, and its black sycamores. So say my neighbours. I, however, am of my boys’ way of thinking. July is their holiday season, and therefore a glorious and delicious month. I feel with them, not only because we all make holiday with them, but because there is a singular splendour in the full fruition of the summer, and in the depth of summer influences witnessed and felt in July. Its sultriness, its rains, its glare of sunshine and gravity of shade may sober down the exhilaration of the early year; but they create a deeper pleasure than that of exhilaration. Perhaps July is not exactly the month that I should choose for a long journey of pleasure; but it is the month of all the year to make holiday in, in a rural home, with schoolboys and their sisters. There are even more flowers and fruits than in June; the days are long; and all is ripeness in the animal and vegetable kingdoms.

The time and order of our holidays are determined by the date of the hay-making, and other Midsummer processes. The interval between them and preparations for harvest is the best time for farmers and country-gentlemen to look about them, and penetrate into neighbouring districts, to note the condition of agriculture and the prospects of the crops. This good old custom is kept up in my family, not only for the advantage of anybody’s estate, but because it yields knowledge, health and pleasure at once to the young people, who go with me, two or three at a time, on each of the three or four excursions which precede our usual visit to the sea. Some of these trips occupy only a day,—though a long one. Others require two days, or three, according to weather. The ponies are in training for some time before. There is great thankfulness if the season serves for getting in the hay before June is gone; and, if we have not begun to mow by old Midsummer (July 6th), we have our fears of being caught by the rains of St. Swithin.

This year, the wet close of May, followed by a