may have cause to rejoice in the fullness of the year.  Above the ground she stores it in drupe and pome and berry, nut and nutlet and achene, and below the ground in rootstock and rhizome, corm and tuber, pumping them full with strokes quick and strong in these grand climacteric days of the summer.  All the water which seemed so useless in April, all the rain which seemed so superfluous and so dreary in May and June, has been used.  Not a drop of it was wasted.  Its office was to feed life, to dissolve the substances in the rocks and the soils which the plants needed, to be mixed with the sunshine in the manufacture of food for the present and for the future.  Nor is the heat nor the light wasted.  Both are stored in the trunks of the trees, and when in the winter the back log sends out its steady heat and the foresticks their cheerful blaze, the old tree will give back, measure for measure, the light and heat it has stored through the years.  Let us rejoice in the fervent heat and the grand work of the August days.  So a man works as he approaches his ideals.  Feebly at first he begins.  Winds of adversity buffet him, cold disdain would freeze his ambition, hot scorn would shrivel his soul.  Still he perseveres, striving towards his ideal, firmly rooted in faith and his heart ever open for the beauty and the sunshine of the world.  In periods of storm and cloud, his heart, like the sun, makes its own warmth and splendor, knowing that the season of its strength shall come.  When he seems to be growing nearer his ideal his fervor is at August heat; for him there is no burden in the heat of the day; tirelessly, joyously, he strives, achieves, attains.  Thus he does his share of the work of the world and adds his mite to the heritage of its future.

* * * * *

The plants of the woodlands seem strangely unfamiliar since the springtime.  If you have not called upon them during these months that have fled so swiftly you will almost feel the need of being introduced to them again.  Some of them, such as the Dutchman’s breeches and the bluebell, have gone, like the beautiful children who died when life was young.  Others have grown away from you, like the children you used to know in the days gone by, so strangely altered now.  The little uvularia, whose leaves were so soft and silky in May and whose blossom drooped so prettily, like a golden bell, is tall, and branched now, and its leaves are stiff and papery.  Its curious, triangular, leathery pods have lifted their lids at the top and discharged their bony seeds.  The blood-root, the hepatica, and the wild ginger are showing big and healthy leaves, but the few lady slippers, here and there, have faded almost beyond recognition.