AUGUST

      Flame-like, the long midday,
    With not so much of sweet air as hath stirred
      The down upon the spray,
      Where nests the panting bird,
    Dozing away the hot and tedious noon,
    With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune.

      Pleasantly comest thou,
    Dew of the evening, to the crisped-up grass;
      And the curled corn-blades bow,
      As the light breezes pass,
    That their parched lips may feel thee, and expand,
    Thou sweet reviver of the fevered land.

      So, to the thirsting soul,
    Cometh the dew of the Almighty’s love;
      And the scathed heart, made whole,
      Turneth in joy above,
    To where the spirit freely may expand,
    And rove, untrammeled, in that “better land.”

    —­William D. Gallagher.

AUGUST FIRST

Andrew Melville born 1545.

Richard Henry Dana, Jr., born 1815.

Maria Mitchell born 1818.

    Am I wrong to be always so happy?  This world is full of grief;
    Yet there is laughter of sunshine, to see the crisp green on the leaf,
    Daylight is ringing with song-birds, and brooklets are crooning at night;
    And why should I make a shadow when God makes all so bright? 
    Earth may be wicked and weary, yet cannot I help being glad! 
    There is sunshine without and within me, and how should I mope or be sad? 
    God would not flood me with blessings, meaning me only to pine
    Amid all the bounties and beauties he pours upon me and mine;
    Therefore I will be grateful, and therefore will I rejoice;
    My heart is singing within me; sing on, O heart and voice.

    —­Walter C. Smith.

    Rejoice always.

    —­1 Thessalonians 5. 16.

Gracious Father, my soul floods with joy for the blessings of life.  May it be my privilege to be happy in them.  Help me not to ask thee for anything which will cause loss to another; may I not delight in a lonely view, but as I see thy glory bring others to the vision also.  Amen.

AUGUST SECOND

Thomas Gainsborough died 1788.

Elisha Gray born 1835.

Marion Crawford born 1854.

William Watson born 1859.

    The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,
    In whatso we share with another’s need;
    Not what we give, but what we share,
    For the gift without the giver is bare;
    Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,
    Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.

    —­James Russell Lowell.

    And when o’er storm and jar I climb,
      Beyond life’s atmosphere,
    I shall behold the lord of time
      And space—­of world and year.

    O vain, far quest! not thus my heart
      Shall ever find its goal! 
    I turn me home—­and there thou art,
      My Father, in my soul.