How many centuries of accumulated intelligence or instinct,—­call it what the scientists please,—­are there behind that action of the bee, thrusting his head just where those nectar-guides are placed?  Is the bee more sentient than the flower?  Or, is the flower which provided the nectar and placed the nectar-guides just at the right place on the bright blossoms, as special allurements for the senses of the bee, the more to be admired for its intelligence?  One by one the bee opens the flowers, which were so fresh and beautiful at sunrise.  When he goes to his nest in the grass at evening, they will all have been drained of their nectar, and the petals will be wilted by the sun.  But they have achieved their object, the ovules have been fertilized.  Tomorrow morning there will be many bright, new blossoms, their nectar crying to the bees, like the voice in Omar Khayyam’s tavern to those outside the door: 

    "When all the temple is prepared within,
    Why lags the drowsy worshiper outside?"

Now there comes sidling, gliding along the barbed wire fence, the Baltimore oriole, always a charming fellow because of his flaming plumage, which has won for him the name of the golden robin and firebird.  He walks along the wire fence in a gliding, one-leg-at-a-time fashion, as he often does on the twig of a tree.  His head is down, he is on the lookout for caterpillars.  Now he reaches the tick-trefoil, and nips out some stamens from its purple blossoms, which he eats with relish.

* * * * *

The work of the year will soon be done.  Most of the trees have completed the growth for the year and nothing remains but to complete the filling of the buds which already have formed for next year.  Pull down a twig of the white-oak and you find a cluster of terminal buds at the end, marking the close of this year’s growth, each of them containing the nucleus of next year’s life.  In the axils of the leaves on the elm are the little jeweled buds which will be brown and dull all winter, but will shine like garnets when the springtime comes.  The fat, green buds on the linden are yellowing now, and next they are to be tinted into the ruby red which is so attractive in the winter months when contrasted with the snow.

As the sun nears the zenith the heat waves on the ridges, and across the cornfields seem to have a rhythmic motion, as if they are manifestations of the great throbbing pulse-beat of nature, working at almost feverish haste to ripen her fruits and prepare for the winter in the few weeks of summer that yet remain.  And now the sunshine has a new and deeper meaning.  If we have ever complained of it, we hasten to pray pardon.  Not only in the cornfields, where the milky ears are fast filling, but all over upland and lowland, in woods and fields and meadows, Nature is busy making and storing starch and sugar, protein and albumen, that the earth and all that therein is