the
sun till eight the next morning--and she arrayed like a lily of the
field? There's mending, but you have the afternoon for that; a letter
to a brother in Canada; let us hope there's one to a sweetheart not so
far away. And then--what? To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.

UNDER THE HARVEST MOON

She is at her full, and even as I write rising red and heavy in the
south-west. All night long she will look down upon at least one corner
of the earth satiate with the good things of life. I don't remember
such a September as this has been for many years past. Misty,
gossamered mornings, a day all blue and pale gold, bees in the
ivy bloom, sprawling overblown flowers, red apples, purpling
vine-clusters, clear evenings: then this smouldering moon to go to
bed by! It is all like a great Veronese wall-picture, or the Masque
in _The Tempest_--"Rich scarf to my proud earth!"--and summons from
me more adjectives than I have needed this twelvemonth. It is indeed
adjectival weather; for Nature is still adding, not discarding stores.
The last act of the "maturing sun" is to ingerminate the flowers and
fruit which will bless or tantalise us next year.

Now is the time when maids get up at six and hunt for mushrooms in
the dew; now the good wives of the village make wine of all sorts of
unlikely fruits, blackberries, elderberries, peaches, pears, and, of
all things in the world, parsnips. I have lately been given of this
wine to taste. It is a cordial rather than a wine and on the good
rather than the bad side. The addition of spices is admitted;
nevertheless out of a particularly mawkish vegetable is made a
palatable drink. "Out of the strong come forth sweetness." After it I
shall be prepared to find a potable in the banana, which is favoured
by many people, of whom I am not one. But I don't find it nastier than
the parsnip, and it is evident that fermentation can work miracles.

In such a year as this I, too, shall have a vintage. For the first
time in my life I shall tread my own winepress, vat my own must,
and (I hope) need no sugar for it. I don't know why it is, but I can
conceive no more romantic rural adventure than that of growing and
drinking your own wine. But there are yet many things to happen. The
grapes must get ripe and the wasps be kept off; and then there are
problems connected with vinification which I have not yet solved. The
Marquis of Bute could tell me all about it, and I wish he would.
He has