I.


This has been a year of long sunshine. Month has followed upon month
with little unkindness of the sky; I scarcely marked when July passed
into August, August into September. I should think it summer still, but
that I see the lanes yellow-purfled with flowers of autumn.

I am busy with the hawkweeds; that is to say, I am learning to
distinguish and to name as many as I can. For scientific classification
I have little mind; it does not happen to fall in with my habits of
thought; but I like to be able to give its name (the "trivial" by choice)
to every flower I meet in my walks. Why should I be content to say, "Oh,
it's a hawkweed"? That is but one degree less ungracious than if I
dismissed all the yellow-rayed as "dandelions." I feel as if the flower
were pleased by my recognition of its personality. Seeing how much I owe
them, one and all, the least I can do is to greet them severally. For
the same reason I had rather say "hawkweed" than "hieracium"; the
homelier word has more of kindly friendship.



II.


How the mood for a book sometimes rushes upon one, either one knows not
why, or in consequence, perhaps, of some most trifling suggestion.
Yesterday I was walking at dusk. I came to an old farmhouse; at the
garden gate a vehicle stood waiting, and I saw it was our doctor's gig.